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THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


THE 

ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


By 

A.  L.  MORTON 


“Ihe  land  where  the  sun  shines  on  both  sides  of 
the  hedge.” 

Wes/  Couniry  Proverb, 


19Z2 

LAWRENCE  & WISHART  LTD 

LONDON 


Prinitil  tn  Crteat  Dr t tain  by 
'T'he  Camelot  Press  JLtd.y  London  and  Southamp\,on. 


TO 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGE 

INTRODUCnON  9 

I.  POOR  man’s  heaven  II 

1.  The  Land  of  Cokaygne 
z.  The  History  of  Cokaygne 

ri.  THE  ISLAND  OF  TIIF.  SAINTS  35 

1.  More  the  Humanist 

2.  Mote  the  Communist 

III.  REVOI.tJTION  AND  COtINTER -RKVOI.UTION  60 

I.  New  Atlantis 


2.  The  Real  and  the  Ideal  Commonwealth 

3.  Utopia  and  the  Reaction 

IV.  REASON  IN  DESPAIR  86 

1.  The  End  of  Cokaygne 

2.  The  Bourgeois  Hero  reaches  Utopia 

3.  Gulliver’s  Progress 

4.  Berington  and  Paltock 

V.  REASON  IN  REVOLT  II4 

1.  Political  Justice 

2.  The  Utopian  Socialists 

3.  The  Book  of  the  Machines 

VI.  THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  I49 

1.  News  from  Boston 

2.  News  from  Nowhere 

3.  Laying  the  Spectre 

VII.  YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  1 83 

1.  Cellophane  Utopia 

2.  The  Machine-wrfeckers 

3.  The  Last  Phase 


TAIUJIECE.  COKAYGNE 

FANTASY 

214 

APPENDIX.  THE  LAND 

OF  COKAYGNE 

217 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

223 

INDH4 

227 

INTRODUCTION 


This  book  is  a story  of  two  islands — ^the  Island  of  Utopia 
and  the  Island  of  Britain.  These  islands  have  parallel  histories 
which  help  to  explain  each  other,  and  that  is  what  I have  tried  to 
make  thenj  do.  For  Utopia  is  really  the  island  which  people 
thought  or  hoped  or  sometimes  feared  that  the  Britain  of  their 
day  might  presently  become,  and  their  thou  ire  affected  not 
only  by  the  books  they  had  read  and  the  ideas  with  which  they 
were  familiar,  but  by  what  was  going  on  in  the  real  world  about 
them,  by  the  class  they  belonged  to  and  by  the  part  that  class  was 
playing  and  wanted  to  play  in  relation  to  other  classes. 

I have  called  it  the  hnslish^  and  not  the  British,  Utopia  merely 
because  the  Utopias  that  have  come  my  way  have  in  fact  been 
English  and  not  Scottish,  Irish  or  Welsh.  Swift  is  only  a partial 
exception  to  this  generalisation.  And  I have  been  happy  to  con- 
fine myself  to  the  Utopia  of  this  one  country  because  our  literature 
is  peculiarly  rich  in  such  books.  This,  I think,  is  mainly  because  of 
the  very  early  development  of  bourgeois  society  here,  and  the 
classic  form  which  that  development  took,  so  that  linglish 
political  thinkers  had  a peculiar  pride  in  our  history  and  felt  a 
special  duty  to  the  world.  This  English  pride  sometimes  takes  the 
form  of  an  odious  smugness,  and  wc  shall  discover  that  smugness 
is  one  of  the  vices  which  Utopia  was  least  successful  in  elimin- 
ating, but  sometimes  it  is  large  and  generous,  the  desire  of  a man 
who  is  on  to  a good  thing  to  share  it  with  his  neighbours.  So 
here,  one  of  the  main  motives  of  the  makers  of  utopias  is  the 
desire  to  present  their  con<'eptions  of  democracy,  of  social  living, 
of  a true  commonwealth,  in  the  most  popular,  most  acceptable 
way.  I have  “delivered  my  conception  in  a fiction,  as  a mote 
mannerly  way,”  wrote  Samuel  Hartlib  of  his  Macaria. 

A second  reason  for  the  richness  of  the  English  Utopia  is  the 
simple  one  that  England  is  an  island.  For  it  is  always  easier  to 
imagine  anything  in  proportion  as  it  resembles  what  wc  arc  or 
know,  and  it  is  as  an  island  that  we  always  think  of  Utopia.  The 
fact  that  ijn  island  is  self-contained,  finite,  and  may  be  remote, 
gives  it  just  the  qualities  we  require  to  set  our  imagination  to 
work.  True  we  shall  find  utopias  underground,  under  the  sea, 
surrounded  by  mountains  in  the  heart  of  Africa  or  Asia,  even  on 
another  planef  or  perh^s  remote  in  time  rather  than  space. 


lO  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

nevertheless  the  vast  majority  of  utopias  are  still  to  be  found  on 
islands. 

The  English  Utopia  is  so  vast  a field  that  I have  not  often  been 
tempted  to  stray  beyond  it.  But  here  and  there  I have  done  so, 
when  this  seemed  necessary  in  the  interests  of  perspective.  1 could 
not,  for  example,  discuss  Morris  properly  without  saying  some- 
thing of  Bellamy,  nor  could  the  French  Utopian  Socialists  be 
altogether  ignored. 

Similarly,  k"*  not  felt  mjself  too  strictly  bound  by  my 
definition  of  Uto^...  as  an  imaginary  country  described  in  a work 
of  fiction  with  the  object  of  criticising  existing  s(^ciety.  Some  such 
definition  was  necessary  to  keep  my  book  within  reasonable 
bounds,  and  it  excludes  from  consideration  both  attempts  to 
found  Utopian  communities  and  works  in  which  the  clement  of 
fiction  is  absent.  Yet  something  had  to  be  said  of  CJocKvin,  Owen 
and  Winstanley,  and  in  some  of  the  books  1 discuss  tlic  element 
of  social  criticism  has  been  reduced  to  very  small  proportions. 
Samuel  Butler  once  defined  definition  as  “the  enclosing  of  a 
wilderness  of  ideas  within  a wall  of  words,*’  and  it  would  be  a 
poor  thing  if  1 could  not  now  and  again  turn  my  back  on  my 
wilderness  to  take  a look  over  the  wall  at  other  men’s  gardens. 
All  ihe  same,  a discussion  of  such  figures  as  \V  instanlcy  and  Owen 
at  a length  at  all  ))rop(^rtionatc  to  their  importance  would  haAc 
turned  this  book  into  something  quite  different  from  cither  the 
tiling  I planned  or  the  thing  it  has  grown  into.  So  I have  contented 
myself  wilh,  in  the  one  case,  a bare  reference,  and,  in  the  other, 
an  outline  cut  down  to  the  minimum,  though  1 am  fully  aw  are  that 
this  course  will  satisfy  nobody. 

]\*rhaps  a note  on  the  wT)fd  Utojna  might  be  helpful.  It  comes 
from  two  Cireek  words  meaning  “No  place”  and  w^as  adopted 
by  Sir  Thomas  More  as  the  name  of  his  ideal  commonwealth. 
From  this  it  has  been  extended  to  cover  all  imaginary  countries 
as  well  as  books  written  about  them.  Here  1 use  Utopia  when  I 
refer  to  the  book  by  Mcjre,  Utopia  wdicn  I am  referring  to  an 
imaginary  country,  and  utopia  when  1 am  referring  to  a book 
about  such  a country.  The  distinction  between  the  second-  and 
third  uses  is  convenient,  but  not  always  easy  to  draw  m practice, 
and  anyone  who  took  the  trouble  to  look  for  them  woulcl  prob- 
ably find  inconsistencies  on  tliis  matter  in  the  following  pages. 
Clare,  A.  L,  Morton. 


CIIAPIIR  T 


POOR  MAN^S  IIEAVFN 


0 see  VC  not  \on  nariow  road. 

So  thick  beset  ^1*  thorns  and  briers? 

1 hat  IS  the  Path  of  Kit^htcousncss, 

Ihcmt^h  after  it  but  tew  incjuircs.  4 

And  see  not  >on  hi  aid,  braid  load, 

'I  hat  lies  across  the  lily  k\tn^ 

That  IS  the  Path  i>t  ^ ickcdncss. 

Though  some  call  it  the  Road  to  llc.ucn. 

And  see  not  ^on  botin\  road 
'J  hat  winds  ahou*  the  tcrnic  Lac-^ 

*I  hit  Is  the  Hold  to  tail  I Ifland, 

\\  here  thou  and  I this  nit»hi  maun  gac 

Old  Ballad  Fiomas  the  Khymtr, 

T.  The  lutU'l  of  Cokavffte 

IN  the  beginning  Utopia  is  an  image  of  dcsiie.  Later  it  grows 
more  comj)lcx  and  \aiious,  and  may  become  an  elaborate 
means  of  expressing  social  eriticism  and  satire,  but  it  will  always 
be  based  on  something  that  somebody  actually  wants.  The  history 
of  Utopia,  therefore,  wilJ  reflext  the  conditions  of  life  and  the 
social  aspirations  of  classes  and  itidividuals  at  different  times.  The 
specific  character  of  the  land  is  reported  varyingly  according  to 
the  taste  of  the  indivieiual  writer,  but  behind  these  vrariations  is 
a continued  modification  that  follows  the  normal  course  of 
historical  development:  the  Irnglisli  Ulcjpia  is,  as  it  were,  a mirror 
image,  more  or  less  distorted,  of  the  historical  England.  Poets, 
prophets  and  philosophers  have  made  it  a vehicle  for  delight  and 
instruction,  but  before  the  poets,  tlie  prophets  and  the  philoso- 
phers there  were  the  common  people,  with  their  wrongs  and  their 
pleasures,  their  memories  and  their  hopes.  It  is  just,  therefore, 
that  the  first  chapter  of  this  book  should  be  given  to  the  Utopia  of 
the  folk.  It  is  the  first  in  time,  the  most  universally  current  and  the 
most  enduring,  and  it  gives  us  a standard  of  values  against  which 
all  its  Successors  can  be  judged. 

The  Utopia  of  the  folk  has  many  names  and  disguises.  It  is  the 
EnglishXIokaygne  and  the  French  Coquaigne.  It  is  Pomona  and  Hy 
Brasil,  Venusb«rg  and  the  Country  of  the  Young.  It  is  Lubbcrland 


12 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


and  SchlaraflFcnland,  Poor  Man’s  Hea^xn  and  the  Rock  Candy 
Mountains.  Brueghel,  who  of  all  the  world’s  great  artists  comes 
nearest  to  the  common  mind,  has  even  painted  it  in  a picture 
that  has  many  of  the  most  characteristic  features:  the  roof  of 
cakes,  the  roast  pig  running  round  with  a knife  in  its  side,  the 
mountain  of  dumpling  and  the  citizens  who  lie  at  their  ease 
waiting  for  all  good  things  to  drop  into  their  mouths.  The  ginger- 
bread house  which  Hansel  and  Gretel  find  in  the  enchanted  wood 
belongs  to  the^  t ountry,  and  so,  at  the  other  end  of  the  scale, 
does  Rabelais’  Auuuyc  de  Theleme,  whose  motto  is  “Do  what 
you  will.”  It  reaches  back  into  myth,  it  colours  romance,  there  is 
hardly  a corner  of  Europe  in  which  it  does  not  appear.  It  would  be 
idle,  therefore,  to  attempt  to  look  for  its  origins  in  any  single 
place  or  period,  much  less  in  any  one  poem  or  story.  Instead,  I 
propose  to  discuss  one  version,  the  early  Fourteenth  Qmtury 
English  poem  The  J^nd  of  Cok^ygne^  and  to  work  backward  and 
forward  from  that  point,  finding  parallels  in  myth  and  romance 
and  tracing  the  development  of  the  Cokaygne  theme  towards 
our  own  time. 

This  treatment  is  all  the  more  suitable  because  this  folk  Utopia 
has  preserved  through  the  ages  a remarkably  constant  character 
and  all  its  main  features  arc  to  be  found  at  their  clearest  in  The 
Land  of  Cokaygne.  It  is  a poem  of  nearly  two  hundred  lines  which 
describes  an  earthly  and  earthy  paradise,  an  island  of  magical 
abundance,  of  eternal  youth  and  eternal  summer,  of  joy,  fellow- 
ship and  peace. 

Literary  textbooks,  when  they  mention  tliis  poem  at  all,  treat 
it  cither  as  an  anti-clerical  satire  or  as  a pleasant  yyke  at  the 
expense  of  those  who  want  everything  for  nothing.  Anti-clcrical 
it  certainly  is,  and  no  doubt  it  does  intend  to  ridicule  monastic 
gluttony  and  evil-living.  Perhaps  it  may  even  be  that  the  writer  set 
out  to  use  a familiar  theme  as  a means  of  attacking  current  abuses. 
But  if  so,  the  theme  quickly  got  out  of  hand,  and  the  satire  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  Utopia.  After  opening  with  a comparison 
between  Cokaygne  and  Paradise  very  much  to  the  advantage  of 
the  former: 

“Though  Paradis  be  miri  and  bright, 

Cokaygne  is  of  fairir  sight. 

What  is  ther  in  Paradis 

Bot  grasse  and  Sure  and  grene  ris?  . 


POOR  man’s  heaven 


^3 

Ther  nis  halle,  bure,  no  bcnchc, 

Bot  watir,  manis  thurst  to  qucnchc/’^ 

whereas  in  Cokaygne, 

“Watir  servitli  thcr  to  no  thing 
Bot  to  sight  and  to  waiissing”^ 

the  poet  is  quickly  carried  away  w'ith  the  delights  to  be  found. 
Only  towards  the  end  does  he  appear  to  remember  his  ostensible 
subject,  in  an  amusing  passage  describing/ '"At sports,  and 
even  here  one  feels  that  condemnation  is  coii^idcrably  tempered 
with  something  like  admiration. 

The  first  point  of  interest  is  the  situation  of  the  island: 

“Fur  in  sec  bi  wxst  of  Spayngne 
Is  a lond  iJiote  Cokaygne.”® 

This  westward  placing  clearly  connects  CoLaygne  with  the  earthly 
paradise  of  Celtic  mythology.  Throughout  the  Middle  Ages  the 
existence  of  such  a paradise  was  iirmly  believed  in,  but  the  church 
always  placed  its  paradise  in  the  lust  and  strongly  opposed  the 
belief  in  a western  paradise  as  a heathen  superstuion.  In  vSpitc  of 
this  ecclesiastical  opposition  the  belief  persisted,  kept  alive  by 
the  frequent  washing  ashore  on  tlie  Atlantic  coasts  of  foreign 
wood,  nuts  and  even,  in  a few  cases,  of  canoes  of  Indian  or 
Esquimau  construction,  driven  to  sea  by  utifavourable  weather. 
So  strong  were  these  beliefs  that  in  the  form  t>f  St.  Branden’s 
Isle  the  western  paradise  liacl  ro  be  christianised  and  adopted  by 
the  Church  itself,  and  t number  of  expeditions  were  sent  out  from 
Ireland  and  elsewhere  in  search  of  the  Isle.  Nevertheless,  the  fact 
that  Cokaygne  is  a nr^/en/  island  is  an  indication  that  the  Cokaygne 
theme  is  of  popular  and  pre-christian  character,  and  the  western 
placing  may  in  itself  be  taken  as  one  of  the  specifically  anti- 
clerical  features. 

Further,  Cokaygne  has  many  of  the  characteristics  of  the  pagan 
Island  of  Apples,  or  Pomona,  where,  as  Baring-Gould  says  — 

“all  is  plenty  and  the  golden  age  ever  lasts.  Cows  give  tlieir 

milk  in  such  abundance  that  they  fill  large  ponds  in  milking. 

^ Though  Paradise  is  merry  and  bright,  Cokaygne  is  more  beautiful.  What  is 
there  in  Paradise  but  grass  and  flowets  and  green  boughs?  , . . There  is  neither  hall 
nor  chamber  nor  bench,  and  nothing  but  water  to  quench  man's  thnst. 

® VC  atef  serves  there  for  no  purpose  except  sight  and  washing. 

® Far  in  the  sea,  fo  the  VC'cst  of  Spam,  is  a land  called  Cokaygne. 


14 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


There,  too,  is  a palace  all  of  glass,  floating  in  the  air  and  rccciv- 
* ing  within  its  transparent  walls  the  souls  of  the  blessed.” 

Or,  to  quote  from  an  Irish  description: 

“milk  flows  from  some  of  the  rivulets,  others  gush  with  wine; 

undoubtedly  there  are  also  streams  of  whisky  and  porter.” 

These  descriptions  may  be  compared  not  only  with  th^  abundance 
to  be  found  in  C^’-aygne,  but  also  with  the  pillars  that — 

* turned  of  criitale. 

With  har  bas  and  capital e 

(^f  grene  jaspc  and  rede  corale,”  ^ 

with  the  richness  of  precious  stones  and  the  windows  of  glass 
which  turn  into  crystal  whenever  they  ate  needed.  The  palace  or 
hill  of  glass,  is,  indeed,  a regular  feature  of  the  earthly  paradise 
in  all  mythologies. 

Above  all  else,  however,  Cokaygne  is  the  land  where  everything 
conics  true.  It  is  the  Utopia  of  the  hard-driven  serf,  the  man  for 
whom  things  are  too  difficult,  for  whom  the  getting  of  a bare 
living  is  a constant  struggle.  If  this  aspect  j^redominates  to  the 
exclusion,  with  one  exception  to  which  I shall  come  presently,  of 
any  clear  sense  of  the  class  stiuggle,  this  is  not  unnatural  consider- 
ing the  circumstances  of  the  time.  Of  course  there  was  a class 
struggle  in  the  Middle  Ages.  There  was  oppression  and  exploit- 
ation, c>f  an  extremely  harsh  and  naked  character.  There  was  a 
glaring  contrast  between  the  lives  of  the  serfs  and  the  lives  of  the 
gentry  and  rich  clergy,  and  it  is  quite  possible  that  part  of  the 
object  of  this  poem  was  to  point  the  contrast  between  serf  and 
monk.  Nevertheless  we  have  also  to  remember  the  general 
poverty  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  result  of  an  extremely  poor 
technique  of  production,  which  made  available  only  a relatively 
small  surplus  after  the  bare  needs  had  been  provided  for  the 
working  population. 

Consequently,  men  were  much  more  directly  aware  than  they 
arc  today  of  the  tyranny  of  necessity,  the  essential  hardness  in  the 
nature  of  things.  Man  was  so  far  from  being  the  master  of  his 
environment  that  he  was  always  prone  to  feel  ihat^it  his 
master.  He  depended  on  the  weather  not  only  because  bad  weather 
is  unpleasant,  but  because  a bad  season  might  mean  absolute 

^ The  pillars  are  fashioned  of  cr\'stal,  with  their  bases  and  capitals  of  gieen  jasper 
and  led  coial. 


POOR  man’s  HEAVtN  I5 

famine.  And,  under  the  very  best  conditions,  long  hours  and  a 
bare  living  were  still  a necessity  from  which  he  could  see  no 
possible  way  of  escape.  Even  the  overthrow  of  his  masters, 
supposing  that  to  have  been  possible,  would  not  have  released  the 
serf  from  this  compulsion  to  any  appreciable  extent.  It  was 
probably  an  advance  that  by  the  Fourteenth  Century  men  were 
becoming  const  tous  of  this  burden.  By  this  time  the  period  of 
migration  ai*^  invasions,  with  its  consequent  breaking  of  society 
into  small,  self-contained  units,  was  well  over  ^Co-opcrati(»n  and 
the  division  of  labour  were  extending  to  wi* ' ’}  and,  with 

the  growth  of  trade,  towns  were  also  growing  and  were  winning 
a measure  of  local  self-government.  There  was  a slow  but  in  the 
aggregate  quite  considerable  ad\ancL  in  technique,  and,  in 
England  at  any  rate,  serfdom  was  in  decline  and  its  harsher 
features  were  becoming  modified.  As  a result,  what  had  fc^rmcrly 
been  so  universally  endured  without  question  or  hope  was  at  last 
beginning  to  be  Iclt  as  a burden:  the  serf  was  beconung  aware  of 
his  servitude  and  the  Fourteenth  (xntury  was  the  great  period  of 
peasant  insurrection. 

C^ut  of  this  situation,  this  begmnih^  of  hope,  springs  77v  Land 
of  Cokaygne.  >X'ith<iut  die  hope  h could  scatcely  ha\e  arisen  at  all. 
If  the  hope  had  been  stronger  or  better  giounded  it  would  not 
have  taken  shape  as  a fantasy,  a grotesvjuc  dream  of  a society 
wished  for  but  not  seen  as  an  actual  possibility,  It  is  this  fantastic 
quality  which  has  led  to  it  being  rcgareled  as  a clumsy  joke,  and, 
indeed,  it  is  easy  enough  (o  ridicule  the  vision  of  the  great  abbey: 

“Fleurcn  cakes  both  the  schinglcs  alle. 

Of  chciehe,  cloister,  boure,  and  halle. 

The  pinnes  both  fat  podinges. 

Rich  met  to  prLice^:  and  to  kinges,”^ 

or  the 

‘‘rivers  gret  and  fine 
Of  oilc,  mclk,  honi,  and  wine,”** 
the 

“gees  irostid  on  the  spitte 
Fleez  to  that  abbai,  God  hit  wot, 

And  gredith,  ‘Gees  al  hote,  al  hotl’”® 

1 AJl  th»  shiAgles  of  the  church,  the  cloister,  the  chamljcr  and  hall  arc  made  of 
flour  cakes.  The  pinnacles  aic  of  fat  puddings,  gland  food  for  princes  and  kings. 

2 Gtcat  and  splendid  nvers  of  oil,  milk,  honey  and  wine. 

® RoastccLgccse  on  spits,  by  God’s  truth,  fly  to  tha^  abbey  crying  out,  “Ciecsc  all 
hot,  aU  hot.” 


l6  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

and 

“The  levcrokcs  that  beth  cuth, 

Lightith  adun  to  manis  muth, 

Idight  in  stu  ful  swithe  wel, 

Pudrid  with  gilofre  and  caneL”i 

But  is  this,  apart  from  the  simplicity  of  its  language,  any  more 
laughable  than  Malory’s  account  of  the  first  appearance  of  the 
Grail: 

“Then  tA. . itercd  into  the  hall  the  Holy  Grail  covered 
with  white  samite,  and  there  was  none  might  sec  it,  nor  who 
bare  it.  And  there  was  all  the  hall  fulfilled  with  good  odours, 
and  every  knight  had  such  meats  and  drinks  as  he  best  loved  in 
the  world.” 

In  fact,  in  this  side  of  Cokaygne  we  can  see  the  fusion  of  the 
pre-chrisrian  nature  cults  of  abundance  with  the  very  practical 
needs  and  desires  of  the  people,  into  a picture  of  a land  whose 
happiness  is  none  the  less  material  and  earthy  for  the  grotesque 
form  in  which  it  is  presented. 

An  especially  interesting  aspect  of  this  abundance  is  the  spice 
tree: 

“The  rote  is  gingevir  and  galingale 
The  siouns  beth  al  sedwale 
Trie  maces  belli  the  flure. 

The  rind,  canel  of  swet  odur, 

'The  frutc,  gilofre  of  gode  smakke.”^ 

This  is  not  merely  a pretty  fancy.  Spices  were  specially  prized  in 
the  Middle  Ages  and  even  later  because  of  the  monotonous  and 
unpalatable  diet,  especially  in  the  winter.  Owing  to  the  difficulties 
of  trade  with  the  liast,  they  fetched  prices  which  put  them  out  of 
the  reach  of  all  but  the  rich,  so  that  a plentiful  supply  of  spices 
growing  ready  to  hand  would  be  a most  desirable  object  to  find 
in  the  I.and  of  Cokaygne. 

This  abundance  of  spices  also,  together  with  the  four  wells  of 
“triaclc  and  halwei,  of  baum  and  ek  piement”,®  connect  Cokaygne 

^ Tasty  larks  fly  down  into  men's  mouths  dressed  in  most  exeq^ent  stew  and 
sprinkled  with  gillyflo>^cr  and  cinnamon. 

^ I’he  root  is  ginger  and  sweet  cyperus,  the  shoots  arc  valetian,  the  ll<^wcrs  choice 
nutmegs,  the  bark  odorous  cinnamon  and  the  fruit  sweet  scented  ‘gillyflower. 

3 '1  riacle  is  medicine,  halwci  is  healing  water  and  piement  is^  kind  of  wine. 


POOR  man's  heaven 


17 

with  yet  another  mythological  feature,  the  Well  of  Youth  or  of 
Life,  which  flows  through  so  many  Earthly  Paradises,  eastern  as 
well  as  western,  and  of  which  Sir  John  Mandeville  writes: 

*'And  under  that  citie  is  an  hyll  that  men  call  Polombe 
[Q)lombo]  and  thereof  taketh  the  citie  his  name.  And  so  at 
the  fote  of  the  same  hill  is  a right  faire  and  clere  well,  that  hath 
a full  good  and  sweete  savoure,  and  it  smelleth  of  all  manner 
of  sortes  of  spyce,  and  also  at  eche  hour^'  of  the  daye  it 
changeth  his  savour  diversely,  and  who  d.  on  the  daye 

of  that  well,  he  is  made  hole  of  all  manner  sickness  that  he 
hathe.  I have  sometime  dronke  of  that  well,  and  methinketh 
yet  that  I fare  the  better;  some  call  it  the  well  of  youth,  for  they 
that  drinke  thereof  seme  to  be  yong  alway,  and  live  without 
great  sicknesse,  and  they  say  this  well  cometh  from  Paradise 
terreste,  for  it  is  so  vertuous,  and  in  this  land  groweth  ginger, 
and  thither  come  many  good  merchaunts  for  spaces.” 

Not  only  is  Cokaygne  a land  of  plenty,  it  is  a land  where  this 
plenty  can  be  enjoyed  without  effort,  and  it  is  perhaps  this 
characteristic  more  than  any  other  which  has  infuriated  the  moral- 
ist and  which  was  responsible  for  the  disrepute  into  which 
Cokaygne  presently  fell.  Yet  it  is  clear  that  in  a world  where 
endless  and  almost  unrewarded  labour  was  the  lot  of  the  over- 
whelming majority,  a Utopia  which  did  not  promise  rest  and 
idleness  would  be  sadly  imperfect.  Idleness  is,  indeed,  rather  less 
stressed  in  The  Land  of  Cokaygne  than  in  some  other  versions,  that 
of  Brueghel,  for  example,  and  the  modern  Kock  Candy  Mountain. 
While,  indeed,  the  larks  alight  ready  dressed  in  the  mouth,  what 
is  really  insisted  upon  is  that  meat  and  drink  can  be  had  ‘‘withoute 
care,  how,  and  swink”,  that  is,  without  the  grinding  and  excessive 
labour  that  filled  the  whole  life  of  the  medieval  serf. 

And  there  is  very  much  more  in  Cokaygne  than  gluttony  and 
idleness.  What  is  specially  insisted  on  and  most  morally  im- 
pressive is  that  it  is  a land  of  peace,  happiness  and  social  justice: 

“A1  is  dai,  nis  ther  no  nighte, 

•Ther  nis  baret  nother  strif, 

Nis  ther  no  deth,  ac  ever  lif; 

Ther  nis  lac  of  met  no  cloth, 

Thei^  nis  man  no  womman  wroth 


i8 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


A1  is  commune  to  yung  and  old, 

To  stoute  and  sterne,  mek  and  bold.”i 

It  is  this  social  feeling,  this  sense  of  fellowship,  which  lifts 
Cokaygne  out  of  the  realm  of  the  grotesque,  or,  rather,  makes  it 
one  of  those  rare  yet  characteristic  popular  testaments  in  which 
the  grotesque  and  the  sublime  unite  to  give  a true  and  living 
picture  of  the  mind  of  the  common  man.  One  is  conscious  here, 
as  elsewhere,  that  the  class  feeling  that  is  never  directly  voiced 
lies  only  just^^  the  surface. 

This  feeling  is  Strengthened  by  the  curious  and  ironical  closing 
lines: 

“Whose  wyl  com  that  lond  to, 

Ful  gret  penance  he  mot  do: 

Seven  ycre  in  swin-is  dritte 
He  mote  wade,  wol  ye  i-witte, 

A1  anon  up  to  the  chynne 
So  he  schal  the  londe  winne. 

Lordinges  godc  and  hendc 
Mot  ye  never  of  world  wend 
Fort  ye  stond  to  yure  cheance. 

And  fulfil  that  penance. 

That  yc  mote  that  lond  ise 
And  never  more  turne  a-ghe. 

Pray  yc  God,  so  mote  it  be 
Amen,  per  scinte  charitc.”^ 

The  meaning  is  clear  enough:  Cokaygne  is,  like  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven,  harder  for  a rich  man  to  enter  than  for  a camel  to  go 
through  the  eye  of  a needle.  Only  by  seven  years  spent  up  to  the 
chin  in  swine’s  dirt — only,  that  is,  by  living  the  life  of  tlic  most 
wretched  and  exploited  serf,  can  a man  find  his  way  thither.  And 
the  specific  address  to  the  “Lordinges  gode  and  hende,”  though 
such  dedications  were,  of  course,  common  form,  gives  the  point 
additional  emphasis. 

1 All  is  day,  there  is  no  night  there,  there  is  neither  quarrelling  nor  strife,  there  is 
no  death,  but  eternal  life;  there  is  no  lack  of  food  and  clothes,  and  ncithi  r man  nor 
woman  is  angry. . . . All  is  common  to  young  and  old,  to  strong  and  seem,  to  meek 
and  bold. 

2 The  man  who  wishes  to  come  to  that  land  must  do  very  great  penance.  He  must 
wade  for  seven  years,  no  doubt  about  it,  right  up  to  the  chin  in  swinc*s  dirt  to  win 
his  way  there,  Aly  good,  kind  Lords,  you  will  never  go  from  the  world  unless  you  are 
prepared  to  endure  and  to  fulfil  that  penance,  so  that  you  may  see  that  land  and  never 
more  return.  Pray  to  God  that  it  may  be  so,  by  holy  charity. 


POOR  man’s  heaven 


19 

This  linking  of  social  justice  with  abundance  in  Cokaygnc 
suggests  an  interesting  parallel  with  the  ancient  tradition  of 
classical  stoicism,  the  most  radical  philosophy  of  the  Greek  and 
Roman  world.  Benjamin  Farrington,  in  his  essay  on  Diodorus 
Siculus,  a Greek  historian  of  the  first  century  b.c.,  cites  the  passage 
in  his  Universal  History  which  contains  an  account  of  the  Stoic 
Utopia,  “The  Islands  of  the  Sun”,  a Utopia  which  certainly 
influenced  Campanella’s  City  of  the  Sun  (1623)  and  most  probably 
More’s  Utopia.  i 

Farrington  points  out  that  the  sun  “who  dispenses  his  light  and 
warmth  equally  upon  all”,  was  closely  connected  in  classical 
thought  with  the  conception  of  justice: 

“There  is  abundant  evidence  that  in  many  circles,  where  the 
religion  of  the  stars  had  blended  with  aspirations  after  a 
juster  society,  the  sun  was  looked  upon  in  a special  sense  as 
the  dispenser  of  justice,  the  guarantor  of  fair-play,  ihc  redresser 
of  grievances,  the  one  who  held  the  balance  straight.  ...  In 
the  third  century  B.C.,  the  sun  had  become  the  centre  of  the 
millennial  aspirations  of  the  dispossessed  among  mankind.  It 
was  believed  that  at  recurrent  periods  the  sun-king  would 
descend  from  heaven  to  earth  to  re-establish  justice  and  make 
all  men  participators  in  a happiness  without  alloy.” 

Such  beliefs  were  especially  encouraged  by  the  Stoics.  In  the 
account  of  their  Islands  of  the  Sun  given  by  Diodorus,  apparently 
in  the  belief  that  he  was  describing  a real  country,  we  can  recog- 
nise a number  of  the  features  we  have  already  found  to  be 
characteristic  of  Cokaygnc.  There  is  the  magical  abundance  and 
perfect  climate: 

“The  air  of  their  land  is  perfectly  tempered,  for  they  live  on 
the  equinoctial  line  and  are  troubled  neither  by  heat  nor  cold. 
Their  fruits  are  in  season  all  the  year. . . . Their  life  is  passed  in 
the  meadows,  the  land  supplying  abundant  sustenance:  for 
by  reason  of  the  excellence  of  the  soil  and  the  temperate  air 
crops  spring  up  of  themsch^es  bejond  their  needs.” 

The  sea  round  the  islands  is  sweet  to  the  taste,  thus  recalling 
the  sweet  springs  of  Cokaygne,  and 

“The  water  of  their  hot  springs,  which  is  sweet  and  whole- 
some, keeps  its  heat  and  never  grows  cold,  unless  cold  water  or 
wine  is  added.” 


20 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


The  element  of  magical  healing  is  present,  too,  in  the  form  of  an 
animal  whose  blood 

“has  a wonderful  property.  It  immediately  glues  together  a cut 
in  any  living  body,  and  a hand  or  other  part  that  has  been  cut 
off  can  be  fastened  on  again  by  it  while  the  cut  is  fresh.” 

All  this  is  combined  with  an  unbreakable  social  solidarity: 

“Since  thjgj*"  is  no  jealousy  among  them  there  is  no  civil 
strife,  and  fll  \ iteep  their  love  of  unity  and  concord  throughout 
life.” 

What  I am  suggesting  is  not,  of  course,  any  direct  or  conscious 
borrowing  by  the  medieval  folk-poets,  but  the  persistence  of  a 
tradition,  and,  perhaps,  of  a common  stock  of  legend  upon  which 
they  and  the  Stoics  all  ultimately  drew. 

In  the  same  stream  of  thought  were  the  political  thc(')ries 
widely  held  in  the  earlier  Middle  Ages,  even  by  those  in  authority, 
that  a right  society  was  one  with  goods  held  in  common  and  with- 
out classes  or  oppressive  state  apparatus.  Government  and 
private  property  was  considered  to  have  been  the  inevitable 
result  of  the  Fall  and  of  man’s  sinful  state.  Such  ideas  were  related 
to  those  about  a Golden  Age  and  perhaps  embody  memories  of 
primitive  communism.  After  the  thirteenth  century,  and  with  the 
growing  influence  of  Aquinas  the  official  theorists  began  to  argue 
that  private  property  and  class  divisions  were  a natural  feature  of 
human  society.  Nevertheless,  the  old  ideas  about  communism 
being  the  true  form  of  society  persisted,  and,  among  the  masses, 
took  a form  very  diflerent  from  those  official  theories  which  had 
placed  upon  the  sinfulness  of  man  the  blame  for  his  inability  to 
realise  the  ideal.  We  can  see  something  of  this  in  the  preaching  of 
John  Ball  and  in  the  social  character  of  the  Land  of  Cokaygne. 

There  is  a further  development  in  the  Cokaygne  theme,  not 
found  in  this  particular  version,  though  possibly  hinted  at  in  its 
closing  lines,  which  is  of  peculiar  sociological  interest.  This 
feature,  pointed  out  by  R.  J.  E.  Tiddy  in  TAe  Mummers*  P/r/y,  is  the 
regular  juxtaposition  of  the  abundance  theme  wdth  the  theme  of 
the  reversal  of  the  normal,  of  topsy-turveydom,  as  he  calls  it.  This 
topsy-turveydom  is  another  familiar  topic  of  medieval  popular  art 
and  literature,  which  delighted  in  such  situations  as  the  hawk 
being  pursued  by  the  heron,  the  sack  dragging  the  ass  to  the  mill 
or  the  fish  hooking  the  fisherman.  Often,  too,  it»takes  the  form  of 


POOR  man’s  heaven 


21 


rough  verbal  nonsense.  In  the  Western-sub-Edge  Mummers’ 
Play,  for  example,  Beelzebub  makes  a long  speech  of  this  kind:  * 


went  up  a straight  crooked  lane.  I met  a bark  and  he 

dogged  at  me.  I went  to  the  stick  and  cut  a hedge I went  of 

the  morroe  about  nine  days  after,  picks  up  this  jeid  (dead)  dog, 
romes  my  arm  down  his  throat,  turned  him  inside  outwards, 
sent  him  c^own  Buckle  Street  barking  ninety  yards  long,  and 
1 followed  after  him.” 

He  is  followed  immediately  by  Jack  Finney  Wiiv>'procceds: 


“Now  my  lads  we  come  to  the  land  of  plenty,  rost  stones, 
plum  puddings,  houses  thatched  with  pancakes,  and  little  pigs 
running  about  with  knives  and  forks  stuck  in  their  backs 
crying  ^Who’ll  eat  me?’” 


Similarly  in  the  Ampleford  Sword  Dance: 

“Fve  travelled  all  the  way  fromIttiTitti,  where  there’s  neither 
town  nor  city,  wooden  chimes,  leather  bells,^  black  puddings  for 
bell  ropes,  little  pigs  running  up  and  down  the  streets,  knives 
and  forks  stuck  in  their  backsides  crying  ‘God  save  the  King.’  ” 


Once  again,  the  essentially  significant  point  has  to  be  looked  for 
beneath  the  jest,  and  wc  have  a clue  that  leads  straight  to  the 
rebellious  core  of  the  popular  thought  of  the  time.  Two  strands, 
formally  opposed  but  in  practice  complementary,  run  through 
the  revolutionary  thought  of  the  Mid^c  Ages.  One  is  that  of 
equality:  “When  Ad^’m  delved  and  Eve  span,  who  then  was  the 
gentleman?”  The  other  is  that  of  upheaval  and  reversal,  of  the 
world  turned  upside  down:  “He  hath  put  down  the  mighty  from 
their  seats  and  hath  exalted  the  liumblc  and  meek.”  It  is  the  second 
of  these  strands  which  historically  has  naturalised  itself  in  the 
Land  of  Cokaygne, 

The  connection  here  shows  itself  in  the  various  popular 
festivals  of  which  the  Feast  of  Fools  may  be  taken  as  the  type. 
Strictly,  the  Feast  of  Fools  was  a religious  affair  in  which  the 
subdcacoris  and  others  in  minor  orders  in  certain  churches  took 
control  of  the  ceremonies  for  a day,  while  the  usual  authorities 
were  relegated  to  a subordinate  position.  There  can  be  no  doubt, 
hovrever,  that  this  was  also  a time  of  more  general  licence  and 
merry-making,  atid  that  there  were  other  similar  festivals  of  a 
more  exclusively  •secular  nature  like  the  crowning  of  the  Lord  of 


22 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


Misrule,  referred  to  by  Philip  Stubbes  in  his  Anatonm  of  Abuses 
(1583).  Usually  the  Feast  of  Fools  began  on  the  eve  of  the  Feast 
of  the  Circumcision  (New  Yearns  Day — ^in  itself  a significant 
detail,  since  the  New  Year  has  always  been  a time  when  the  idea 
of  making  a change  or  a new  start  is  powerful).  ^ The  signal  was 
the  reaching  at  evensong  of  the  verse  from  the  Magnificat  already 
quoted — He  hath  put  down  the  mighty.  At  this  point  the  choir 
and  the  minor  orders  would  take  the  bit  between  their  teeth.  The 
verse,  always  ^an  of  revolt,  was  repeated  over  and  over  again. 
A master  of  ccfemonics,  known  by  varying  titles  such  as  the 
King  of  Fools,  the  Lord  of  Misrule  or  the  Boy  Bishop,  was 
elected.  Mass  was  celebrated  with  all  sorts  of  ludicrous  additions: 
an  ass  would  be  led  into  the  church  with  a rider  facing  its  tail,  and 
braying  take  the  place  of  the  responses  at  the  most  solemn  parts: 
censing  was  parodied  with  black  puddings:  the  clergy  turned  their 
garments  inside  out,  changed  garments  with  women  or  adopted 
animal  disguises:  soon  the  excitement  and  licence  would  spread 
beyond  the  church  throughout  the  town  or  city. 

The  higher  ecclesiastical  authorities  tried  for  centuries  without 
great  success  to  suppress  or  even  tone  down  these  proceedings. 
Professor  R.  K.  Chambers  quotes  a letter  from  the  Theological 
Faculty  of  the  l^niversity  of  Paris  which  both  expresses  the 
ofTicial  view  and  gives  a lively  picture  of  what  happened: 

^‘Priests  and  clerks  may  be  seen  wearing  masks  and  mons- 
trous visages  at  the  hours  of  office.  They  dance  in  the  choir, 
dressed  as  women,  pandars  or  minstrels.  The)  sing  wanton 
songs.  They  cat  black  puddings  at  the  horn  of  the  altar  while  the 
celebrant  is  saying  mass.  They  play  at  dice  there.  They  cense 
with  stinking  smoke  from  the  soles  of  old  shoes.  They  run  and 
leap  through  the  church  without  shame.  Finally  they  drive 
about  the  town  and  its  theatres  in  shabby  traps  and  carts;  and 
rouse  the  laughter  of  their  fellows  and  the  bystanders  in 
infamous  performances,  with  indecent  gestures  and  verses 
scurrilous  and  unchaste.^’ 

Professor  Chambers  summarises  the  general  character  of  the 
Festival  by  saying: 

“The  ruling  idea  of  the  feast  is  the  inversion  of  status,  and 
the  performance,  invariably  burlesque,  by  the  inferior  clergy  of 

^ It  IS  worth  noting  that  the  ofhcial  New  Year  at  this  time — Mai  chi  5 th — brings 
us  close  to  another  similar  Festival,  that  of  All  Fools’  Day.  ' 


POOR  MAN^S  HEAVEN 


23 

functions  properly  belonging  to  their  betters. . . . Now  I would 
point  out  that  this  inversion  of  status  so  characteristic  of  the 
Feast  of  Fools  is  equally  characteristic  of  folk  festivals.  What 
is  Dr.  Frazer’s  mock  king  but  one  of  the  meanest  of  the  people 
chosen  out  to  represent  the  real  Idng  as  the  priest  victim  of  a 
divine  sacrifice,  and  surrounded,  for  the  period  of  the  feast, 
in  a naive  attempt  to  outwit  heaven,  with  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  kingship?” 

When  we  remember  that  these  folk-rites  were  ^jranned  to  ensure 
favourable  weather  and  an  abundance  of  food,  their  connection 
with  the  Cokaygne  theme  is  easily  explained.  They  link  similarly 
with  the  Roman  Kalends  and  Saturnalia,  1 themselves  relics  of  the 
pre-classical  religious  practices  of  the  country  people,  in  which 
there  was  in  the  same  way  a time  of  general  licence,  and  whose 
most  striking  feature  was  the  temporary  equality  of  slaves  with 
their  masters.  Once  njore,  rites  and  customs  possibly  prehistoric 
survive  because  they  still  correspond  to  existing  realities,  and 
supply  the  mould  in  which  the  revolutionary  feeling  of  a later 
age  expresses  itself. 

It  may  be  argued  that  in  these  fantasies,  Cokaygne  dreams  and 
symbolic  festivals,  this  revolutionary  feeling  was  canalised, 
diverted  and  rendered  harmless.  It  would  be  truer  to  say  that  this 
was  a period  in  which  revolution  was  not  objectively  possible 
though  popular  riots  were,  of  course  frequent,  and  that  they 
were  the  means  of  keeping  alive  hopes  and  aspirations  that  might 
otherwise  have  dic^^  away,  and  which  at  a later  date  would 
prove  of  immcnvsc  value.  The  same  may  be  said  about  the  closely 
related  witch  cult.  Here,  also  wc  have  a surviving  pre-christian 
religion,  driven  underground  and  forced  to  exist  secretly,  yet 
claiming  countless  adherents.  The  cult  appears  to  have  been 
highly  organised  and  at  times  to  have  served  as  a focus  for  move- 
ments of  political  revolt,  though,  in  the  nature  of  things,  the 
direct  evidence  here  must  be  cxtremJy  meagre.  V^liat  is  certain 
is  that  periodical  meetings  or  Sabbats  were  held,  at  which  the 
main  features  were  an  clabotate  and  lavish,  if  rude,  feast  and 
ceremonies  that  were  a deliberate  reversal  of  the  normal,  as, 
for  example*  in  the  dances  performed  anti-clockwise  and  in  the 
inverted  mimicry  of  Christian  ritual.  It  should  be  remembered, 

^ Saturn  was  the  ancient  ruler  of  the  Gods,  whose  reign  was  a time  of  peace  and 
UJiiveisal  abundance  Sefoie  the  development  of  classes^ 


24  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

also,  that  dancing  of  any  kind  was  discouraged  by  the  priests  as 
something  devilish  and  pagan,  and  but  for  the  wide  di&sion  of 
the  witch  cult  might  have  been  stamped  out  altogether.  It  is  by  no 
means  impossible  that  the  account  of  Cokaygne  may  be  in  part 
at  any  rate  a veiled  description  of  the  Sabbat,  which  was  probably 
not,  in  the  earlier  times  at  least,  the  horrific  and  diabolical  affair 
which  it  was  represented  as  being  by  ecclesiastical  writers.  Such 
speculations  lead  us  far  into  the  land  of  conjecture,  however.  We 
must  remembiP^^tat  nothing  survives  to  give  us  the  point  of  view 
of  the  witches  except  a few  chance  answers  in  cross-examination 
which  have  found  their  way  into  the  accounts  of  their  trials. 

2.  The  History  of  Cokaygie 

Summing  up  the  account  given  in  the  last  section,  we  can  say 
that  the  Land  of  Cokaygne  embodies  the  profoundest  feelings  of 
the  masses,  expresses  them  in  an  extremely  concrete  and  earthy 
fashion,  and  is  related  to  the  main  theme  of  popular  mythology 
on  the  one  hand  and  the  main  stream  of  popular  revolt  on  the 
other.  It  is  really  quite  central,  and  could  hardly  have  failed  to 
receive  much  more  attention  than  has  been  given  to  it,  if  it  had 
not  from  the  start  been  constantly  ridiculed  or  ignored  by  the 
learned  and  respectable.  The  literary  references  to  it  are  few  and 
indirect,  and  always  it  is  treated  as  something  too  childish  or  too 
disgusting  to  be  worthy  of  serious  attention.  Even  Shakespeare, 
whose  broad  human  understanding  brings  him  so  close  to  the 
mind  of  the  people,  and  who  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Gonzalo 
(Tewpes^y  Act  II,  Scene  i)  what  appears  to  be  a sympathetic  if 
rather  classicised  account  of  Cokaygne,  hardly  treats  it  as  a serious 
matter  and  allows  Gonzalo  to  be  laughed  out  of  countenance  for 
a pedlar  of  old  wives’  tales.  Ben  Johnson  in  Bartholomew  Fair  is 
openly  contemptuous:  and  we  should  note  that  Cokaygne  has  now 
become  Lubberland — the  country  of  idle  good-for-nothings — 
an  attitude  that  may  be  connected  with  the  new  respect  for 
diligence  and  the  accumulation  of  wealth  that  accompanied  the 
rise  of  the  bourgeoisie.  Dame  Purecraft,  in  the  authentic  accents  of 
Mr.  Bumble,  rebukes  Littlewit  for  wanting  pork,  to  which  he 
replies: 

‘‘Good  Mother,  how  shall  we  find  a pig  if  we  don’t  look 
about  for’t?  Will  it  run  off  o’  the  spit  into  our  mouths,  think 
you?  as  in  Lubberland  and  cry  we  we^^ 


POOR  man’s  heaven 


25 

Two  other  examples  of  this  contemptuous  attitude  may  be 
given  from  the  utopian  writers  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The 
fest  is  from  Mundus  Alter  et  Idem,  written  by  Bishop  Hall, 
probably  about  1600,  and  published  in  1607.  Though  in  Latin,  it 
was  a popular  work  which  had  more  than  one  imitator  and  which 
was  translated  by  John  Heeley  in  1608.  It  is  from  this  translation 
that  I shall  quote.  The  book  itself  is  of  interest  as  being  the  first 
of  the  negative  or  satirical  utopias,  books  in  wliich  the  social 
criticism  takes  the  form  of  describing  in  countries 

those  vices  and  follies  the  author  would  have  lis  avoid.  It  des- 
cribes a voyage  to  Terra  Australia  and  the  discovery  there  of 
Crapulia,  the  land  of  excess.  It  is  divided  into  five  provinces: 
Pamphagoia,  or  Gluttons’  Land,  Yvronia,  or  Drunkards’  Land, 
Viraginia,  where  women  rule,  Moronia,  or  Fools’  Land — said  to 
be  the  largest,  the  least  cultivated  and  the  most  populous  of  all — 
and  Lavernia,  the  Land  of  Rogues,  most  of  'v^hose  inhabitants  find 
a dishonest  living  at  the  expense  of  their  neighbf^urs  the  Moron- 
ians.  Nearby  is  situated  Terra  Sancta,  marked  on  the  accompany- 
ing map  as  ‘‘non  adliuc  satis  cogiiita.” 

In  the  main  no  doubt,  Bishop  Hail  intended  to  satirise  the  fail- 
ings of  his  age,  but  there  are  also  clear  indications  that  a part  of 
his  intention  was  to  portray  a sort  of  anti-Cokaygne,  to  express  the 
disgust  felt  by  the  cultivated  mind  of  the  comfortable  churchman 
at  the  grossness  of  pojiuUr  delusions,  Tliis  is  evident  in  the  chapters 
describing  Pamphagoia,  whose  god  is  the  great  Omasius  Gorgut 
or  Gorbelly.  Here: 

“There  arc  ccrtainc  creatures  grown  out  of  the  earth  in  the 
shape  of  Lambes,  which,  being  fast  joyned  unto  the  stalke  they 
grow  upon  do  notwiths^'anding  cat  up  all  the  grassc  about 
them  . . . the  fishes  ...  are  naturally  so  ravenous  and  greedy 
that  you  can  no  sooner  cast  out  your  angle-hook  among  them 
but  immediately  . . . you  shall  have  hundreds  about  the  line, 
some  hanging  on  the  hooke,  and  rome  on  the  string  besides  it, 
such  is  their  pleasure  to  goe  to  the  pot,  such  their  delight  to 
march  in  pompe  from  the  dresser.” 

There  follows  a series  of  revolting  descriptions  of  the  manners  of 
the  people,  and  the  condition  to  which  they  arc  brought  by 
over-indulgence.  So  in  Idleberg,  which  is  but  another  name  for 
Lubberland, 


z6 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


‘*The  richest  sort  have  attendants:  one  to  open  the  master^s 
eyes  gently  when  he  awaketh:  one  to  fanne  a code  ayre  whilest  he 
eateth,  a third  to  put  in  his  viands  when  he  gapeth,  a fourth  to 
girdle  his  belly  as  it  riseth  and  falleth,  the  master  onley  excr- 
ciseth  but  eating,  digesting  and  laying  out*” 

And  there  is  a real  touch  of  horror  in  the  account  of  the  city  of 
Marchpane,  which: 

“hath  but  vejp^few  inhabitants  of  any  years  that  have  any  teeth 
left:  but  all^^n^m  i8  to  the  ^ravc,  are  the  naturale  heirs  of 
stinking  breaths.” 

Mundus  Alter  et  Idem  is  a vigorous  and  entertaining  work  which 
ranks  quite  high  in  the  peculiarly  English  genre  of  the  satirical 
utopia.  Samuel  Gott’s  Nova  Solyma^  on  the  other  hand,  is  perhaps 
the  most  dreary  and  repellent  utopia  ever  written.  i Yet  it  does 
contain  one  passage  that  is  really  striking,  the  fable  of  Philomela. 
It  describes  a palace  of  pleasure,  where  guests  are  invited  to 
a perpetual  banquet,  in  the  midst  of  which  they  arc  suddenly 
precipitated  into  a sewer: 

“There  the  remains  of  the  banquets  and  the  vomit  of  over- 
charged stomachs  and  other  filthy  excrements  lay  rotting,  and 
with  them  the  skeletons  of  those  who  by  violence  or  disease 
had  come  to  an  untimely  end  or  by  hunger  and  cold  had  l^cen 
the  victims  of  the  cruellest  usage.  There  was  a horrid  noise,  too, 
of  rattling  chains,  and  the  roar  of  wild  beasts  seizing  their 
prey,  and  at  your  feet  was  a great,  steep  precipice,  and  below 
that  a huge,  impassable  river,  into  which  many  of  the  wretched 
captives  willingly  drowned  themselves,  rather  than  suffer  the 
prolonged  torture  of  so  horrible  a fate,  and  the  lacerations  of 
the  wild  beasts.” 

So,  for  the  middle-class  Puritan,  ends  the  Earthly  Paradise,  in 
disgust,  in  unspeakable  misery  and  in  death. 

TTiis  kind  of  moral  reprobation  can  be  seen,  too,  at  a much 
later  date  in  Charles  Kingsley’s  The  Water  'Babies  (1863).  He  tells 
of  the  sad  fate  of  the  Doasyoulikes,  who  lived  in  the  land  of 
Readymade  at  the  foot  of  the  Happy-go-lucky  Mountains: 

“They  sat  under  the  flapdoodle-trees,  and  let  the  flapdoodle 
drop  into  their  mouths;  and  under  the  vines,  and  squeezed  the 
1 See  Chapter  III,  Section  a.. 


POOR  MAN*S  HEAVEN 


27 

grapt  juice  down  their  throats;  and,  if  any  little  pigs  ran  about 
ready  roasted,  crying,  ‘Come  and  cat  me,*  as  was  their  fashion 
in  that  country,  they  waited  till  the  pigs  ran  against  their 
mouths,  and  then  took  a bite,  and  were  content,  just  as  so  many 
oysters  would  have  been/* 

For  which  shameful  disregard  of  the  Victorian  Gospel  of  Work 
they  arc  visited  with  a progressive  series  of  catastrophes  and  with 
ultimate  extinction. 

The  people  themselves  have  never  share  |;^tiese  opinions. 
Whatever  their  betters  might  say  they  have  continued  to  cherish 
the  dream  of  Cokaygne.  In  song,  in  story  and  in  play,  the  theme 
persisted,  breaking  only  rarely  into  printed  literature  and  then 
only  in  broadsheets  and  chapbooks  circulating  among  the  half- 
literate.  The  frequent  references  in  the  folk  plays  have  been  men- 
tioned already.  Another  appearance,  for  knowledge  of  which  I 
am  indebted  to  Jack  Lindsay,  is  in  a volume  of  Songs  oj  ihe  hards 
of  the  Tjney  published  in  1849  bat  containing  poems  written 
considerably  earlier  and  sometimes  cmployiilg  themes  obviously 
traditional.  One  poem  has  die  foUowing  passage: 

“Aw  gat  in  to  sec  Robin  Hood, 

Had  two  or  three  quairts  wi  John  Nipcs,  man; 

And  Wesley,  that  yence  preached  sac  good. 

Sat  smokin’  and  praisin’  the  swipes,  man: 

“I.egs  of  mutton  here  grows  on  each  tree, 

Jack  Nipcs  said,  and  wasn’t  mistaken — 

When  rainin’  tlierc’s  such  a bit  spree. 

For  there  comes  down  great  fat  sides  o’  bacon.” 

Whether  Wesley  had  reaches  ^ Cokaygne  because  or  in  spite  of  the 
excellence  of  his  preaching  is  by  no  means  clear.  Another  poem 
from  the  same  collection  says: 

“As  aw  cam  doon,  aw  passed  the  mcun, 

An’  her  greet  burning  t>iountains — 

Her  turnpike  tc'xM  aw  found  out  seun, 

Strang  beer  runs  there  in  fountains.” 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  both  these  poems  have  as  their 
subject  the  theme  of  the  magical  cure,  especially  since  it  is  always 
in  the  part  of  tiie  folk-plays  dealing  with  the  cure  and  the  res- 
toration to  life  »f  the  dead  hero  that  the  Cokaygne  passages  occur.aN 


28 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


Here  once  more  we  find  the  link  between  the  Cokaygne  of  popular 
tradition  and  the  mythological  Fortunate  Isles  with  their  fountain 
or  well  of  perpetual  youth.  The  same  connection  can  be  seen  in 
one  of  the  very  few  modern  literary  Cokaygne  references,  W.  B. 
Yeats’  poem  The  Happy  Townland.  Here: 

‘‘Boughs  have  their  fruit  and  blossom 
At  all  times  of  the  year; 

Rivers  arc  running  over 
Wli|!^'ed  beer  and  brown  beer.” 

And,  while  the  inhabitants  enjoy  themselves  by  fighting,  every 
night: 

“All  that  are  killed  in  battle 
Awaken  to  life  again. 

It  is  lucky  that  their  story 
Is  not  known  among  men. 

For  (),  the  strong  farmers 
That  would  let  the  spade  lie, 

Their  hearts  would  be  like  a cup 
That  somebody  had  drunk  dry.” 

Yeats,  who  commonly  looked  for  subject-matter  to  his  native 
mythology,  naturally  approaches  Cokaygne  indirectly  through 
the  Celtic  Earthly  Paradise.  Far  more  direct  and  definitely  work- 
ing class  in  origin,  and  for  both  reasons  more  important  for  our 
purpose,  are  the  numerous  references  in  modem  American  folk 
songs  and  tales.  The  most  complete  Cokaygne  pictures  are  in  two 
songs.  The  Brg  Rock  Candy  Mountains  and  Toor  Man's  Heaven. 
Superficially  similar,  these  songs  contain  most  of  the  usual 
Cokaygne  features:  the  abundance  of  food,  the  miraculous 
streams,  the  eternal  summer  and  the  delight  of  idleness.  Thus: 

“In  the  Big  Rock  Candy  Mountains 
All  the  cops  have  wooden  legs, 

And  the  bulldogs  all  have  rubber  teeth. 

And  the  hens  lay  soft  boiled  eggs.^ 

1 In  Bnieghers  Schlaraffenland  there  is  a boiled  egg  in  a cup,  runnihg  about 
icady  opened,  with  a spoon  sticking  out  of  the  top.  Obviously  the  makers  of  this 
song  knew  nothing  of  Brueghel,  but  the  persistence  of  all  these  minute  details  is  an 
indication  of  a clear  and  continuous  verbal  tradition  of  which  we  have'only  acci- 
dental and  disconnected  evidence. 


POOR  man’s  heaven 


29 


The  farmers’  trees  are  full  of  fruit 
And  the  barns  are  full  of  hay, 

Oh  I’m  bound  to  go,  where  there  ain’t  no  snow. 

Where  the  rain  don’t  fall,  where  the  wind  don’t  blow.” 

There: 

“The  little  streams  of  alcohol 
Come  ^-trickling  down  the  rocks.  . . . 

There’s  a lake  of  stew  and  of  whisky  too  ” 
and:  ^ - 

‘‘There  ain’t  no  short-handled  shovels, 

No  axes,  saws  or  picks, 

I’m  bound  to  stay  where  they  sleep  all  day. 

Where  they  hung  the  Turk  that  invented  work, 

In  the  Big  Rock  Candy  Mountains.” 

Similarly: 

“In  Poor  Man’s  Heaven  we’ll  have  our  own  way, 

There’s  nothing  up  there  but  good  luck. 

There’s  strawbciry  pie 
That’s  twenty  feet  liigh 

And  whipped  cream  they  bring  in  a truck.  . . . 

We’ll  eat  all  wc  please 
Off  ham  and  egg  trees. 

That  grow  by  the  lake  full  of  beer.” 

The  Cokaygne  theme  crops  up  in  a variety  of  other  forms  and 
places.  Among  th(*  Negroes,  for  example  in  one  of  the  stories 
about  John  Henry,  that  mythological  hero  of  so  many  legends 
in  which  the  bounds  of  human  possibility  arc  miraculously 
enlarged.  In  this  one  he  find  . a tree  made  of  honey  and  another  of 
flitter  jacks: 

“Well,  John  Henry  set  there  an’  ct  honey  an’  flitterjacks,  an’ 
after  while  when  he  went  to  git  up  to  go,  button  pop  off’n  his 
pants  an’  kill  a rabbit  mo’  ’n  hundred  ya’ds  on  other  side  o’  de 
tree.  An’  so  up  jumped  brown  baked  pig  wid  sack  o’  biscuits 
on  his  back,  an’  John  Hciiry  et  him  too. 

“So  John  Henry  gits  up  to  go  through  woods  to  camp  for 
supper,  'cause  he  ’bout  to  be  late  an’  he  mighty  hongry  for  his 
supper.  John  Henry  sees  lake  down  hill  an’  thinks  he’ll  git  him 
a iink  o’  water,  ’cause  he’s  thirsty,  too,  after  eatin’  honey  an’ 
flitterjacks  ail’  brown  roast  pig  an’  biscuits,  still  he’s  hungry 


30  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

yet.  An’  so  he  goes  down  to  git  drink  water  an’  finds  lake  ain’t 
nothin’  but  lake  o’  honey,  an’  out  in  middle  dat  lake  ain’t 
nothin’  but  tree  full  o’  biscuits  too.” 

Again,  there  is  the  story  of  Jack*s  Hunting  Tr/ps^  a composite 
version  made  by  Richard  Chase  from  the  narrations  of  a 
number  of  mountain  story-tellers  in  Virginia.  In  the  course  of 
the  tale,  Jack  (who  is  indeed  our  old  friend  Jack  of  Beanstalk) 
goes  hunting  along  a river  of  honey,  shaded  by  fritter  trees,  and 
little  pigs  coni^j^ut  of  the  brush  with  a knife  and  iotk  stuck  in 
there  backs,  squealing  to  be  eaten.  ^ 

Here,  I think,  we  can  see  something  of  the  kind  of  way  in  which 
the  Cokaygne  theme  crossed  the  Atlantic,  and  A.  J^.  Lloyd,  to 
whom  I am  heavily  indebted  for  information  about  its  American 
versions,  has  suggested  that  the  immediate  ancestor  of  Tbe  Big 
Kock  Candy  Mountains  is  a popular  Norwegian  song,  with  a very 
similar  tune,  which  first  appeared  in  print  in  1853  and  became 
a popular  classic  throughout  Norway.  In  it  the  legendary  character 
(Me  Bull  invites  one  and  all  to  leave  their  miserable  lives  for  the 
freedom  of  Oleana.  Some  of  the  verses  of  this  song  run  roughly 
as  follows: 

“In  Oleana,  that’s  where  I’d  like  to  be,  and  not  dragging  the 
chains  of  slavery  in  Norway. 

“In  Oleana  they  give  you  land  for  nothing,  and  the  grain  just  pops 
out  of  the  ground— it’s  money  for  jam! 

“The  grain  threshes  itself  in  the  granary,  while  I stretch  at  case 
in  my  bunk. 

“And  Munich  beer,  as  good  as  Yetteborg  can  brew,  runs  in  the 
creeks  for  the  poor  man’s  delight. 

“And  brown  roasted  pigs  leap  about  so  prettily,  asking  politely 
if  anyone  would  like  ham.” 

To  the  Norwegian  peasant  and  fisherman  the  Earthly  Paradise 
lay  in  America,  to  which  thousands  were  emigrating  throughout 
the  Nineteenth  Century:  when  the  emigrant  arrived  he  quickly 
found  that  this  Utopia  had  existed  only  in  the  imaging  tio.n.  In  life 

^ Honey,  another  echo  of  the  Middle  Ages,  \thcn  sugar  almost  unktn>wii  and 
honey  greatly  prized  as  the  one  substance  available  for  sweetening.  Perhaps  the  same 
kind  of  conditions  utre  found  in  outlying  parts  of  the  U.S.A.  where  die  pioneers 
were  largely  self-supporting  and  imported  sugar  would  also  ht  a luxury. 


POOR  man’s  heaven  31 

it  was  somclhing  that  had  to  be  fought  for  or  pushed  away  into 
a distant,  fantastic.  Never-never  Land.i 

It  is  startling  to  find  the  same  thoughts  and  desires  expressed 
in  almost  the  same  words  in  a new  continent  and  after  six  cen- 
turies, in  fourteenth  century  England  and  in  the  United  States  of 
the  early  twentieth,  or,  more  probably  in  the  late  nineteenth 
century,'-*  the  one  feudal,  decentralised  and  almost  entirely 
agricultural,  die  other  a highly  organised,  industrial  country  with 
an  advanced  technique  and  with  capitalism  alrep^?^  reaching  the 
stage  of  monopoly.  Nevertheless,  the  U.S.A.  altiiough  the  Fron- 
tier in  the  old  sense  had  disappeared  by  the  last  decades  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  still  contained  vast  areas  incompletely  opened 
up,  Ginsequently  there  was  a mass  of  migratory,  unskilled  labour, 
building  railways  and  roads,  digging  canals  and  irrigation  works, 
attached  to  no  particular  job  but  prepared  to  leave  at  short 
notice  for  any  point  in  the  Union  uhcre  there  were  n ports  of 
good  wages  and  plenty  of  work.  And,  at  the  same  time,  the 
battle  with  nature  had  not  yet  been  won.  While  there  was  intense 
class  exploitation,  it  was  still  often  possible  to  feel,  in  the  primitive 
hardness  of  the  conditions  of  life,  that  the  mass  of  the  people 
were  not  only  up  against  the  rule  of  the  rich  but  also  against  the 
inevitable  oppression  of  natural  forces.  This  is  the  common  factor 
which  may  account  for  the  reappearance  in  so  many  new  forms  of 
the  Cokaygne  theme. 

Nevertheless,  time  does  not  stand  still,  and  the  theme  reappears 
with  significant  modifications,  which  account  not  only  for  the 
differences  between  otlj  Poor  Man's  Heaven  and  The  Big  Rock 
Candy  Mountains  and  the  medieval  iMfid  of  Cokaygne^  but  between 
these  tw'o  songs  themselves.  The  Big  Rock  Cand)i  Mountains  is 
closer  in  feeling  to  the  origir-^l.  It  is  fantastic  and  passive,  and, 
indeed,  for  all  its  surface  gaiety,  has  an  underlying  weariness  and 
cynicism  born  of  a fuller  realisation  that  Cokaygne  under  modern 
conditions  is  no  more  than  a dream.  It  is  a song  of  the  bum,  the 
more  demoralised  element  among  the  migratory  workers  It  is 
a decadent  Utopia,  as  any  Utopia  must  be  in  our  time  which  turns 
away  from  the  class  struggle. 

^ Lloyd  also  suggests  that  Oleana  ma)  have  suggested  to  Ibsen  the  Utopia  of 
Gyiitiana,  la  Act  IV  of  Veer  Cynf.  Ibsen  is  perhaps  an  even  more  unexpected  person 
than  Wesley  to  meet  m the  Land  of  CokaygntI 

* Like  most  folk  song^  and  talcs  these  aie  hard  to  da«^e,  but  there  seems  to  be  a 
reference  in  *Poor  Alan's  Heaven  to  the  Populist  anti-trust  and  cheap  money  agitation 
that  culminated  m Bryan’s  election  campaign  of  1896. 


32 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


Poor  Man's  Heaven  is  active  and  positive  where  The  Big  Rock 
Candj  Mountains  is  passive  and  negative.  It  is  Cokaygne  with  some 
of  the  old  fantastic  elements,  but  with  the  addition  to  them  of  the 
class  struggle,  even  if  in  a somewhat  anarchist  form.  Thus,  for 
example,  whereas: 

*Tn  tlie  Big  Rock  Candy  Mountains 
The  jails  are  made  of  tin. 

And  you  can  walk  right  out  again 
As  you  are  in,** 

in  Poor  Man's  Heaven: 

“We*ll  take  an  iron  rail 
And  open  the  jail. 

And  let  all  the  poor  men  out  quick.** 

And  again,  while  in  the  first  case: 

‘^The  brakemen  have  to  tip  their  caps 
And  the  railroad  bulls  are  blind,’* 

in  the  second: 

‘‘Vfe’ll  ride  in  a train. 

And  sleep  in  a pullman  at  night. 

And  if  someone  should  dare  to  ask  for  our  fare 
Wc’ll  hold  up  and  put  out  his  light.** 

In  Poor  Man's  Heaven^  also,  the  conception  of  idleness  takes  a new 
and  more  revolutionary  form  with  the  addition  of  the  idea  of 
class  reversal; 

“And  we  will  be  fed 
With  breakfast  in  bed. 

And  served  by  a fat  millionaire.” 

Most  striking  of  all  is  the  contrast  of  the  concluding  lines, 
where  in  place  of  the  rather  pathetic  jauntiness  of: 

“I’ll  see  you  all  this  coming  Fall, 

In  the  Big  Rock  Candy  Mountains,” 

we  have: 

“In  Poor  Man’s  Heaven  wc’ll  own  our  ownvhomes 
And  we  won’t  have  to  sweat  like  a slave. 

But  we  will  be  proud  to  sing  right  out  loud. 

The  land  of  the  free  and  the  brave.” 


POOR  man’s  heaven  53 

Wliercas  in  the  hand  of  the  bum,  the  idea  of  Cokaygne  loses  even 
the  implication  of  class  revolt  which  it  originally  had,  among  the 
genuine  migratory  workers,  the  men  who  built  up  the  LW.W. 
with  its  unsurpassed  record  of  fearless  militancy,  these  impli- 
cations, always  present,  are  developed  and  enriched  by  their 
contact  with  modern  socialism. 

And,  indeed,  fantastic  as  its  form  may  have  been,  Cokaygne 
does  anticipate  some  of  the  most  fundamental  conceptions  of 
modern  socialism.  Socialism,  if  it  is  to  be  anything  but  an  ica- 
demic  fabrication  of  blueprints,  must  take  its  rise  f _V)m  the  desires 
and  hopes  of  the  people.  It  is  from  this  that  it  derives  its  life, 
its  actuality  and  its  assurance  of  final  victory.  The  classless  society 
is  Cokaygne  made  practical  by  scientific  knowledge.  Socialism  is 
in  agreement  with  Cokaygne,  above  all,  in  the  belief  that  abund- 
ance is  possible  without  the  burden  of  unending  and  soul-destroy- 
ing toil:  the  naive  and  pictorial  expression  in  which  this  perfectly 
correct  belief  found  expression  in  the  Cokaygne  literature  was  a 
result  of  the  impossibility  of  finding  any  pracrical  realisation  in 
view  of  the  low  level  of  the  technique  of  production  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  The  conquest  of  nature  was  then  only  beginning,  and  so  the 
final  triumph  of  man  over  nature  could  c)nly  be  expressed  magic- 
ally and  symbolically.  In  this  way  Tk  L^md  cf  Cokaygne  is  the 
beginning  of  a dialectical  growtli  of  the  conception  of  Utopia, 
which  has  its  culmination  in  the  greatest  and  the  most  tully 
socialist  work  of  this  type,  illiam  Morris^  News  from  Nowhere, 
a book  which  gathers  up  all  the  riches  and  experiences  of  the 
philosophical  Utopias  of  the  intervening  period  and  relates  them 
once  again  to  the  neglertcd  but  undying  hopes  of  the  people. 
It  is  the  tracing  of  this  basic  pattern  in  the  history  of  the  English 
Utopia  which  is  one  of  the  u ain  objects  of  this  book. 

There  is  one  other  important  point  that  must  be  touched  on: 
the  conception  in  Cokaygne  of  the  relation  between  man  and 
nature.  Medieval  man  was,  as  we  have  seen,  strongly  aware  of  his 
struggle  against  his  environment.  He  felt  deeply  the  hostility  of 
the  world,  the  briefness  and  uncertainty  of  life.  Man  was  a stranger 
and  a sojourner,  passing  from  .'^.*rkncss  to  twilight  and  thence  into 
darkness  again,  a darkness  only  slightly  alleviated  by  the  church’s 
promisesi,  o£  heaven  and  rendered  even  more  impenetrable  and 
horrifying  by  its  threats  of  hell.  This  was  the  source  of  the  sense  of 
the  limitation  of  n.an  which  round  its  theological  expression  in 
the  dogma  of  original  sin.  The  church  saw  man  and  nature  as 


34  the  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

separate  and  opposed  forces,  and  the  duty  of  man  to  resist  both 
the  world  and  the  worldly  within  himself.  The  struggle  between 
man  and  the  world  was  the  only  means  of  avoiding  a collapse  into 
brutishness,  and,  the  nature  of  man  being  what  it  was,  the  mere 
avoidance  of  such  a collapse,  and  the  salvation  of  the  individual 
soul,  was  the  very  most  that  could  reasonably  be  looked  for. 

In  Cokaygne  there  is  implicit  the  rejection  of  this  pessimistic 
and  reactionary  outlook.  Here,  happiness  and  the  enjoyment  of 
plenty  in  fellowship  is  the  outcome  of  the  establishment  of  a 
harmony  between  man  and  his  surroundings,  of  the  conquest  of 
nature  by  man,  but  a conquest  possible  because  man  is  a part  of 
nature  instead  of  being  in  opposition  to  it.  In  this  way,  Cokaygne 
can  be  seen  as  a rough  and  early  foreshadowing  of  Humanism, 
the  philosophy  of  the  bourgeois  revolution.  About  Humanism 
more  will  have  to  be  said  in  relation  to  More  and  Bacon;  what 
must  be  noted  here  is  that,  in  spite  of  its  narrow  and  mechanical 
conception  of  the  nature  of  progress.  Humanism  was  a necessary 
and  valuable  belief  with  its  insistence  on  the  possibility  and  fact  of 
progress,  as  against  the  static  world  picture  of  Medieval  philo- 
sophy, and  on  the  goodness  and  dignity  rather  than  on  the  sinful- 
ness and  helplessness  of  man.  Humanism  made  it  possible  to 
believe  that  man  could  mould  the  world  in  accordance  with  his 
desires,  whereas  the  church  taught  him  that  he  could  only  save 
himself  from  the  world.  Without  such  a belief  the  very  conception 
of  Utopia  is  impossible,  and  this  is  why  we  find  no  conscious  and 
fully  developed  utopian  thought  between  the  philosophers  of  the 
classical  world  and  those  of  the  dawn  of  the  bourgeois  revo- 
lution. 


CHAPTER  II 


THR  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS 


Quick-witted  Sir  Th<^mas  More  travcld  in  a clcane  contrarie  province,  tor 
he  seeing  ino|]t  commonwealths  corrupted  by  ill  customc,  and  that  princip- 
alities were  nothing  but  gicat  piracies,  which  gotten  by  violence  and 
murther  were  maintained  by  private  undermining  and  bloudshed,  that  in 
the  chccfcst  flourishing  kingdomes  there  was  no  couall  or  well  devided 
wcalc  one  with  another,  but  a manifest  conspiracic*of  tichc  men  against 
poore  men,  procuring  their  owne  unlawful  commodities  under  the  name 
and  interest  of  the  commonwealth,  hee  concluded  with  himself  to  lay  down 
a perfect  plot  of  a common-wealth  government,  which  he  would  iniitlc 
his  Utopia. 

Thom\s  Nashf,  Ihe  Vniortmate  Traveller,  1594. 


I.  More  the  lluwanist 

Between  the  writing  of  The  hand  of  Cokaygne  and  the 
* writing  of  Utopia  lie  two  hundred  years,  and  in  that  time 
a great  transformation  had  taken  place.  A rapid  process  of  differ- 
entiation was  taking  place  among  the  peasantry,  and  the  feudal, 
subsistence  economy  of  the  middle  ages  was  giving  place  to  a 
modern  economy  based  on  the  production  of  goods  for  sale  in 
the  market.  In  the  fourteenth  century,  as  we  have  seen,  serfdom 
was  already  undergoing  profound  modifications:  in  the  fifteenth 
it  had  almost  disappeared  and  the  serf  had  become  a free  culti- 
vator. It  would  be  V,  rong  to  cherish  any  illusions  about  this 
time,  but  it  is  not  altogether  without  reason  that  it  has  been 
described  as  a golden  age.  Yet  in  the  very  nature  of  tilings,  such 
a state  of  affairs  was  onlv  partial  and  transitory,  and  if  England 
,was  ever  merry  the  merriment  was  but  short-lived.  The  breaking 
up  of  the  medieval  village  commune  emancipated  the  serf,  but  it 
also  destroyed  the  very  basis  of  his  security:  in  freeing  liim  from 
his  attachment  to  the  soil  it  created  the  conditions  under  which 
he  could  be  driven  off  the  soil  altogether. 

The  creation  of  a free  peasantry  implies  the  development  of 
an  economy  based  on  simple  commodity  pr(>duction,  and  this  in 
its  turn  iffiplics  the  creation  of  a new  kind  of  landowner,  whose 
power  was  not  based  on  the  multitude  of  liis  dependants  but  on 
the  amount  of  cash  profit  he  could  extract  from  his  estates.  In 
England  this  process  was  specially  marked  because  England  was 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOTIA 

the  main  producer  of  wool,  and  wool  was  the  article  which  more 
than  any  other  could  always  be  turned  into  money.  At  the  same 
time,  the  wool  industry,  and  the  enclosures  which  it  involved, 
was  only  the  most  outstanding  example  of  a general  tendency, 
so  that  when  More  wrote — 

*‘Your  sheep  that  were  wont  to  be  so  meek  and  tame,  and 
so  small  eaters,  now,  as  I heare  saye,  be  become  so  great 
devowrers  and  so  wylde,  that  they  eate  up,  and  swallow 
downe  the  very  men  themselvtP,” 

he  was  only  describing  in  particular  terms  this  general  process, 
the  replacement  of  a subsistence  agriculture  by  an  agriculture 
based  on  the  production  of  goods  for  the  market  and  the  develop- 
ment of  a purely  money  relation  between  the  dilferent  classes 
drawing  their  living  from  the  soil. 

This  process,  together  with  the  corresponding  growth  of 
merchant  capital,  of  trade  and  of  urban  industry,  which,  though 
still  on  a handicraft  basis,  catered  more  and  more  for  a national 
and  even  an  international  market,  involved  the  birth  of  a new 
class,  the  proletariat.  And,  as  More  was  one  of  the  first  to  see,  it 
was  accompanied  by  the  greatest  amount  of  suffering  and  dis- 
location since  the  dispossession  of  the  peasantry  and  the  discharge 
of  many  of  the  retaificrs  and  other  parasites  of  the  old  nobility 
whom  the  ending  of  internal  wars  among  the  nobility  for  the 
control  of  the  state  apparatus  now  rendered  superfluous,  ran  far 
ahead  of  the  absorption  of  the  unemployed  into  industry.  This 
was,  indeed,  the  inevitable  consequence  of  the  fact  that  in  Eng- 
land capitalism  developed  first  in  agriculture  and  trade  and  only 
afterwards  and  more  slowly  in  industry,  wliich  remained  on  a 
petty,  scattered  and  individual  basis.  In  one  of  the  best  known 
passages  in  Utopia  More  describes  the  sufferings  of  this  new, 
disinherited  class. 

‘‘Therefore  that  one  covetous  and  unsatiable  cormaurante 
and  very  plague  of  his  native  contrey  maye  compassc  about  and 
inclose  many  thousand  of  akers  of  grounde  together  within  one 
pale  or  hedge,  the  husbandmen  be  thrust  owte  of  their  owne,  or 
else  either  by  coveyne  and  fraude,  t>r  violent  oppression  they 
are  put  besydes  it ...  by  one  meanes  therefore  or  by  another, 
either  by  hooke  or  crooke  they  must  needes  depart  awaye, 
poore,  silly,  wretched  soules,  men,  women,  husbands,  wives. 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS  37 

fatherlessc  children,  widows,  wocfull  mothers,  with  their 
yonge  babes.  . . . Away  they  trudge,  I say,  out  of  their  knowen 
and  accustomed  houses,  fyndynge  no  place  to  rest  in,  . . . And 
when  they  have  wandered  abroad  tyll  fall]  be  spent,  what  then 
can  they  else  doo  but  stcale,  and  then  justly  pardy  be  hanged,  or 
els  go  about  a-beggyng.” 

The  early  jiixteenth  century  was  a black  enough  time:  en- 
closures, widespread  unemployment  and  beggary,  prices  rising 
far  more  rapidly  than  wages,  savage  repressive  laws  against  the 
exploited,  constant  wars  between  the  national  states  springing  up 
out  of  the  ruins  of  feudal  society,  corruption,  if  not  greater  than 
before,  at  least  enjoying  fuller  opportunity.  And  out  of  it  all  there 
arose  a general  sense  of  bewilderment  and  despair.  Everything 
known  and  secure  seemed  to  be  in  question:  the  static,  self- 
contained  feudal  world  where  the  lord  ruled  over  the  mai»or  and 
the  Pope  at  Rome  reigned  over  a univ^ersal  and  undivided  Church 
was  passing  and  there  seemed  nothing  to  take  its  place.  Yet  in  fact, 
all  this  suffering  and  uncertainty,  real  as  it  was,  was  still  rather  a 
symptom  of  growth  than  of  decay,  though,  as  often  in  an  age  of 
rapid  transitii^n,  it  was  the  decay  lather  than  the  growth  which 
was  most  apparent.  Ov^er  and  against  the  misery  and  as  it  were 
complementary  to  it,  was  a new  growth,  the  rise  of  a great  mer- 
chant class,  strong  and  confident,  mapping  and  parcelling  the 
world,  of  great  cities  and  new  industries,  and,  to  make  this 
possible,  of  new  powerful  states  governed  by  dynasties  like  the 
Tudors  who  had  seizca  power  over  the  bodies  of  the  old  nobility 
and  had  established  an  absolutism,  which,  for  all  its  oppressive- 
ness, was  not  without  a genuii popular  basis,  since  it  stood  for 
order,  for  national  as  opposcu  to  local  organisation,  and  for  an 
internal  stability  and  a secure  and  considerable  market  without 
which  the  position  of  the  bourgeois  could  not  be  consolidated. 

Such  was  the  world  in  which  Thomas  More  grew  to  manhood: 
a world  of  despair  and  hope,  of  conflict  and  contrast,  of  increas- 
ing wealth  and  increasing  pov.^tiy,  of  idealism  and  corruption,  of 
the  decline  at  once  of  the  local  and  international  societies  in  face 
of  the  national  state  which  was  to  provide  the  frame  withia  which 
bourgeois  society  could  develop. 

More  liimsclf  belonged  to  a body  which  welcomed  the  new 
order,  to  the  class  of  rich  London  merchants  who  were  one  of  the 
principal  stays  ofThe  Tudor  monarchy.  His  father  was  a prominent 


38  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

lawyer,  later  a Judge — a member  of  the  upper  civil  service 
which  was  increasingly  being  drawn  from  the  ranks  of  the 
upper  bourgeoisie.  More  was  brought  up  in  the  household  of 
Archbishop  Morton,  the  chief  minister  of  Henry  VII,  and, 
rather  against  his  will,  since  he  was  strongly  attracted  by  the  life 
of  scholarship,  became  himself  a lawyer.  Quite  early  he  was  elected 
to  Parliament  and  he  acted  as  the  spokesman  of  the  Londoners  on 
a number  of  important  occasions.  In  this  way  he  wis  brought  into 
close  touch  with  national  affairs,  and  finally,  as  we  shall  see,  was 
drawn  into  the  service  of  the  crown,  unwillingly  and  with  tragic 
results.  In  1529  he  became  Lord  Chancellor,  holding  office  with 
considerable  distinction  but  with  increasing  discomfort  till  he 
resigned,  in  1532,  on  account  of  his  reluctance  to  carry  out 
Henry  VIIPs  church  policy.  Shortly  after  he  was  sent  to  the 
Tower,  and,  in  July  1 53  5,  he  was  beheaded  on  a charge  of  treason. 
It  will  be  necessary  to  discuss  some  parts  of  his  career  in  greater 
detail  in  relation  to  the  views  he  expressed  in  JJiopia^  but  first  of 
all  it  will  be  well  to  say  something  of  his  character  and  intellectual 
background. 

Perhaps  the  fullest  and  most  intimate  picture  of  More  is  that 
given  by  his  friend  Pkasmus  in  a letter  to  Hutten.  Erasmus  speaks 
of  his  “kind  and  friendly  cheerfulness,  with  a little  air  of  raillery,’* 
of  the  simplicity  of  his  tastes,  his  capacity  for  friendship  and  his 
affection  for  his  family.  This  was  the  impression  More  gave  to  all 
who  knew  him,  and  even  today  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  read  either 
his  writings  or  those  of  his  biographers  without  arriving  at  a sense 
of  peculiar  intimacy  such  as  we  receive  from  few  other  historical 
characters.  We  admire  the  man  for  his  courage  and  honesty,  for 
the  simplicity  which  he  combined  with  his  learning  and  his 
capacity  for  affairs.  More,  like  Swift,  though  not  altogether  for 
the  same  reasons,  was  one  of  those  figures  around  whom  an 
apocrypha  gathers — a body  of  anecdotes  which  may  not  be  true 
but  which  are  valuable  because  they  are  in  keeping  with  a brilliant 
personality  vividly  felt.  And  yet,  behind  it  all,  there  is  something 
else,  something  a little  withdrawn  and  a little  contemptuous  of 
common  life,  which  comes  out  most  plainly  in  More’s  patronising 
treatment  of  his  wives.  We  are  constantly  reminded  that  More  was 
strongly  drawn  to  the  extreme  austerity  of  life  of  the  Carthusian 
order.  We  feel  that  though  he  would  have  been  a delightful 
companion,  equally  prepared  to  discuss  philosophy  or  to  indulge 
in  a gentle  kind  of  practical  joking,  only  a part  of  him  would 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS  59 

have  been  engaged.  At  bottom  it  is  the  typical  conflict  between 
old  and  new,  between  the  humanist  and  the  medieval  ascetic,' 
which  made  him  write  of  the  married  and  celibate  orders  of  labour 
monks  that 

*‘the  Utopians  countc  this  secte  the  wiser,  but  the  other  the 
holier.” 

Perhaps  it  \frould  be  truer  to  say  that  Humanism  itself,  especially 
in  England,  was  the  field  of  such  a conflict.  Humanism,  though  it 
was  a new  doctrine,  and  the  belief  of  a new  historic  class,  still 
arose  out  of  the  dogmatic  and  scholastic  thinking  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  was  shot  through  with  the  very  things  against  which  it 
was  in  revolt.  So  that  we  get  at  the  one  time,  and  even  in  the  one 
person,  the  sceptical  and  pagan  thought  of  the  Renaissance  and 
the  puritan  and  dogmatic  thought  of  the  Reformation.  Even  in 
Italy,  where  Humanism  vas  first  established  and  most  firmly 
rooted,  this  was  so.  Humanism  reflected  the  boundless  optimism 
of  a new  class  which  saw  the  world  opening  bcYr^re  it.  It  discarded 
the  dogma  of  original  sin  and  the  cf)iiviction  that  Satan  is  the 
Lord  of  this  world  for  the  dogma  that  both  man  and  world  are 
only  hindered  by  external  checks  from  infinite  improvement: 

‘‘You  get  at  this  time  the  appearcnce  of  a new  attitude 
which  can  be  most  broadly  described  as  an  attitude  of  accept- 
ance to  life,  as  opposed  to  an  attitude  of  renunciation.  As  a 
consequence  of  this  there  emerges  a new  interest  in  man  and 
liis  relationship  tc  -is  environment.  With  this  goes  an  increas- 
ing interest  in  character  and  personality  for  its  own  sake”  (T.  E. 
Hulme,  Speculations^  p.  25). 

This  new  attitude  was  not  only  the  result  of  the  emergence 
of  a new  progressive  class  but  of  a new  conception  of  history.  Up 
to  this  time  men  had  been  living  in  the  shadow  of  the  past.  They 
looked  back  from  the  squalor  of  feudalism  to  the  real  and 
imagined  glories  of  the  ancient  world  as  to  a golden  age.  But  at 
the  close  of  the  fifteenth  ccni  • / it  would  be  roughly  true  to 
say  that  civilisation  had  reached  and  in  some  respects  passed  the 
level  attained  in  the  Graeco-Roman  world.  And,  consequently, 
instead  of  looking  back  to  a past  more  glorious  than  the  present, 
it  was  possible  to  look  forward  to  a future  more  glorious  than 
cither.  This  growth  of  civilisation  transformed  man’s  whole 
outlook: 


40  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

**It  was  likely  that  as  prosperity  and  stability  of  civilisation 
gradually  increased,  the  istinction  between  nature  and  super- 
nature  would  become  less  and  less  harsh.  The  doctrines  of 
*grace’  and  "original  sin*  may,  as  has  been  suggested,  have  arisen 
out  of  the  despair  accompanying  the  disintegration  of  the 
ancient  world;  "but  as  life  became  more  secure  man  became  less 
otherwordly*  **  (Basil  Willey,  The  Seventeenth  Century  'Back- 
ground,  p.  33). 

This  future  happiness  was  to  be  attained  by  the  removal  of  all 
artificial  and  external  checks,  that  is,  by  the  exercise  of  reason, 
which  meant  in  practice  the  adoption  by  princes  and  statesmen 
of  the  views  of  the  Humanists. 

“For  whereas  your  Plato,**  wrote  More,  ""judgeth  that  weale 
publiques  shall  by  this  means  atteyn  perfect  felicitie,  eyther  if 
philosophers  be  kynges  or  else  if  kynges  give  themselves  to  the 
studie  of  Philosophic,  how  farre,  I prayc  you,  shall  commen 
wcalthes  then  be  from  thys  felicitie  if  philosophers  wyll 
vouchsaufe  to  cnstruct  kinges  with  their  good  councell?** 

And  finally,  though  the  common  people  had  no  part  to  play  in  this 
transformation  of  the  world,  Humanism  at  its  best,  in  the  hands  of 
men  like  More,  did  look  beyond  the  immediate  future  and  the 
narrow  class  interests  of  the  bourgeoisie  towards  the  happiness 
of  man  as  a whole. 

Consequently,  again,  there  was  an  internal  contradiction  and 
conflict.  Humanism  could  not  but  be  conscious  of  increasing 
misery  as  well  as  of  progress,  and  the  individual  Humanists 
reacted  either  towards  a superficial  and  hedonistic  paganism  or 
towards  a moral  earnestness  and  desire  for  social  and  religious 
reform.  It  was  this  latter  aspect  that  was  most  strongly  marked  in 
England  and  Northern  liurope,  where  Humanism  never  became 
very  firmly  rooted  but  remained,  outside  a group  of  intellectuals, 
a generalised  and  diffused  influence  which  finally  made  its 
contribution,  in  a modified  form,  to  the  Revolution  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  And  Colct,  through  whom  more  than 
through  any  other  one  man  Humanism  reached  this  country,  had 
made  his  contact  with  it  in  Italy  at  a time  when  it  was  in  its  most 
highly  Christian  and  serious  phase,  when  the  influence  of 
Savanarola  and  of  Pico  della  Mirandola  was  at  its  height. 

Freed  to  a certain  extent  from  the  theological  absolutes  of 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS 


41 


scholasticism,  the  Humanists  felt  the  need  for  a new  set  of 
absolute  values.  These  they  found  partly  in  a more  rational 
Christianity,  but  even  more,  perhaps,  in  the  works  of  Plato  and 
theneo-platonists.  Greek  philosophy  came  to  them  afresh  through 
the  study  of  the  original  texts  instead  of  the  imperfect  Latin 
summaries  that  had  had  to  serve  throughout  the  middle  ages.  And 
Plato,  above  all,  with  his  conceptions  of  ideal  truth,  beauty  and 
justice,  discoverable  by  the  exercise  of  the  reason,  and  to  which 
man  and  his  institutions — churches,  states,  cities  and  universities 
— could  be  made  to  conform,  appealed  irresistibly  to  men  who 
saw  in  history  not  a development  towards  new  forms  of  society 
but  towards  their  own  form  of  society.  The  urban  life  of  the 
fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  had  a sufficient  superficial 
resemblance  to  that  of  the  Greek  city  'Jtates  to  allow  of  the  drawing 
of  all  sorts  of  parallels,  some  valuable  and  some,  to  our  way  of 
thinking,  fantastic  enough.  Plato’s  Kepuhlic  had  been  known,  at 
second  hand,  throughout  the  middle  ages,  and  it  was  inevitable 
that  it  should  serve  as  the  starting  point  for  ahy  draft  of  a model 
commonwealth. 

Such  a commonwealth  was  entirely  static  in  character.  Plato 
believed  that  w’hat  w'^as  necessary  was  to  devise  city  state  with 
a sufficient  hinterland  and  a fixed  C)ptimum  population,  to  give 
it  a finished  and  perfect  constitution,  regulating  the  relations 
of  classes,  the  nature  and  scope  of  industry,  the  type  and  extent 
of  the  education  necessary  for  the  various  classes,  the  religion 
best  calculated  to  serve  its  social  stability.  The  foundation-stone 
was  justice—  which  meant  the  due  subordination  of  classes  and 
the  recognition  by  all  of  their  respective  duties  and  rights.  Such 
a state,  he  supposed,  if  it  ( • aid  once  be  established,  might  en- 
dure unchanged  for  ever. 

These  assumptions,  in  some  cases  modified,  constitute  the 
starting  point  of  More’s  Utopia^  but,  to  a large  extent,  they  remain 
unstated.  More  was  not  concerned  to  repeat  what  had  already 
been  done  in  the  Republic^  to  build  logically,  step  by  sti‘p,  the 
principles  upon  which  a < mmonwealth  should  be  based. 
Instead,  he  takes  the  principles  for  granted  and  presents  us  with  a 
living  picture  of  such  a Commonwealth  already  discovered  in 
full  working  order.  The  result  is  a book  that  is  narrower  but  far 
more  lively  and  vivid  than  the  Republic^  the  picture  of  a society  so 
fully  realised  that  More  feels  able  to  answ^er  all  doubts  by  saying, 
as  it  were,  “Butlt  really  is  so,  I have  seen  it,  and  in  fact  it  works,” 


42  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

And  in  some  important  respects  More  goes  far  beyond  Plato. 
Utopia  is  not  a city  state,  self-sufficient  and  self-contained,  but 
a nation-state  covering  an  area  roughly  that  of  England  and  having 
a full  national  life  in  relation  to  other  states.  Further,  Plato’s  state 
was  a small  aristocratic  community  living  on  the  labour  of  a large 
number  of  slaves  and  serfs,  and  its  communism  was  confined  to  its 
ruling  class.  Plato  advocated  communism  not  because  this  is  the 
only  means  of  securing  the  abolition  of  class  exj5loitation,  but 
because  he  thought  that  a preoccupation  with  worldly  goods  was 
bad  for  the  morals  of  his  philosopher  ‘guardians’.  More’s  Utopia 
was  an  approximation  to  a classless  society,  and  was  necessarily 
communist  because  he  believed  that 

“where  possessions  be  private,  where  money  beareth  all  the 
stroke,  it  is  harde  and  almoste  impossible  but  there  the  wcale 
publique  maye  justelye  be  governed  and  prosperouslye 
floryshc.  Unless  you  thinke  thus:  that  justyce  is  there  executed 
where  all  thinges  come  into  the  handcs  of  evill  men,  or  that 
prosperctye  there  floryshethe  where  all  is  divided  amonge 
a fewc.” 

More  had  too  great  an  experience  of  the  world  to  believe  that  any 
class,  however  well  intentioned  and  carefully  educated,  can 
possess  state  power  without  oppressing  and  exploiting  the 
propertyless  majority.  Through  the  whole  of  his  book  the  ques- 
tions of  the  state,  of  class  and  of  property  are  continually  being 
raised,  and,  in  the  main,  are  answered  in  a strikingly  modern  way. 
It  is  to  More’s  treatment  of  these  fundamental  questions  that  any 
serious  and  socialist  analysis  of  Utopia  must  be  directed,  since  it  is 
its  treatment  of  them  v hich  makes  the  book  a landmark  along  the 
road  towards  scientific  socialism.  It  is  the  link  between  the  social 
theory  of  the  ancient  world  and  that  of  the  present  day. 

This  does  not  mean,  of  course,  that  it  was  not  a book  of  its  own 
time,  written  with  a very  close  and  deliberate  attention  to  the 
contemporary  situation.  It  is  perhaps  because  of  this  close 
attention  to  what  actually  was,  and  to  the  tendencies  and  direction 
of  his  age,  that  More  was  able  to  look  so  far  into  the  future.  It  was 
because  he  understood  more  clearly  than  those  around  him  the 
changes  that  were  then  taking  place  that  he  was  able  to*  forecast 
the  society  which  those  changes  were  ultimately  to  make  possible. 
He  wrote  Utopia  at  the  turning  point  of  his  life  and  in  the  full 
maturity  of  his  powers.  In  i j i j More  wa3  thirty-sdven.  He  was  the 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS  43 

honoured  friend  of  the  greatest  scholars  of  his  time,  of  Erasmus 
and  Colet,  of  Linacre  and  of  Grocyn.  He  had  already  sat  in  Parlia- 
ment where  he  had  distinguished  himself  by  his  opposition  to  the 
demands  of  the  crown.  He  was  an  outstanding  lawyer  and  a 
recognised  leader  and  spokesman  of  the  London  merchants.  And, 
though  he  had  refused  to  enter  the  roval  service,  he  was  sent  upon 
an  important  diplomatic  mission  to  Flanders. 

It  was  at  Antwerp,  in  the  cour<!e  of  this  mission,  that  Utopia 
was  begun,  and  it  is  in  Antwerp  that  the  machinery  of  the  tale  is 
laid.  There,  says  More,  in  the  house  of  one  Peter  Giles,  he  met 
Raphael  Hythloclay,  just  home  after  having  set  out  upon  a 
voyage  with  Amerigo  Vespucci,  in  the  course  of  which  he  had 
been  separated  from  his  companions  and  had  spent  five  years  in 
Utopia.  Ilythloday  is  described  with  a vividness  recalling  Swift 
and  Defoe,  and  the  substance  of  the  book  is  what  he  told  More 
and  Giles  in  the  course  of  an  afternoon  and  evening.  In  a letter 
published  at  the  end  of  tlie  book  Giles  expresses  his  wonder  at 
More\s 

“perfect  and  suer  0101010^*10,  wnich  could  wclniegh  worde  by 
wordc  rehearse  so  many  thmges  once  onely  heard.’’ 

Only  in  one  respect  was  this  nicmory  at  fault — over  the  situation 
of  the  island: 

“For  when  Raphael  was  speaking  thereof,  one  of  Master 
More’s  servauntes  came  to  him,  and  whispered  in  his  eare. 
Wherefore  I being  then  of  purpose  more  earnestly  addict  to 
hcare,  one  of  the  company,  by  reason  of  cold  taken,  I thiiike, 
a shippeborde,  coughed  out  so  loude,  that  he  took  from  my 
hearinge  certen  of  his  woi  Jes.” 

In  this  way  the  great  secret  was  lost,  “for  wc  heare  very  uncerten 
newes”  of  Hythloday  after  this  time. 

An  account  of  the  voyage  of  Vespucci,  in  which  Hythloday  is 
supposed  to  have  taken  part,  v as  printed  in  1 507  and  was  certainly 
well  known  to  More.  In  it  is  rribed  the  simple,  pre-class  societ)^ 
of  the  Indian  tribes  encountered.  H.  W.  Donner,  in  Introduction 
to  Utopia^  writes  of  this  account: 

“They'  despised  gold,  pearls  and  jewelry,  and  their  most 
coveted  treasure  s consisted  in  brightly  coloured  birds’  feathers. 
They  neither  sell,  he  says,  nor  buy,  nor  barter,  but  are  content 
with  what  na'ture  freely  gives  out  of  her  abundance.  They  live 


44 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


in  perfect  liberty,  and  have  neither  king  nor  lord.  They  observe 
no  laws.  They  hold  their  habitations  in  common,  as  many  as 
six  hundred  sharing  one  building.*^ 

In  1 5 1 1 Peter  Martyr’s  De  orhe  novo  appeared,  giving  an  even 
more  idealised  account  of  the  natives  of  the  West  Indies.  Clearly 
these  reports  form  part  of  the  material  that  went  to  the  making  of 
U/opia,  as  More  in  effect  acknowledges  by  making  Mythloday  the 
narrator.  This  picture  of  primitive  innocence,  as  interpreted  by  the 
Humanists  with  their  belief  in  the  classical  Golden  Age  and 
reinforcing  the  still  unforgotten  communist  ideas  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  made  an  important  contribution  towards  More’s  conception 
of  a just  society  that  looks  at  once  backwards  and  forward. 

Actually,  the  second  book  of  Utopia^  in  which  a detailed 
description  of  the  country  was  given,  was  written  in  Antwerp  in 
the  autumn  of  1515.  The  first  book,  which  contains  a long  dis- 
cussion on  the  nature  of  kings  and  the  social  condition  of 
England,  was  added  in  the  spring  of  the  next  year.  The  whole  was 
published  in  Latin  at  Louvain  towards  the  end  of  the  yea*r  and 
between  then  and  1519  was  republished  in  a number  of  European 
cities.  It  is  curious  that,  in  spite  of  the  great  success  and  popu- 
larity of  JJtopia^  no  edition  was  published  in  England  in  More’s 
lifetime,  nor  was  any  English  translation  printed  till  Robinson’s 
edition  appeared  in  1551,  It  is  from  Robinson’s  revised  edition 
of  1556  that  I quote,  modernising  the  spelling  to  a certain  extent. 
Since  then  a number  (^f  new  and  in  some  respects  more  accurate 
translations  have  appeared,  but  Robinson’s  has  a warmth  and  a 
quality  of  style  that  seems  to  bring  it  closest  to  the  original, 
and  it  is  in  this  translation  that  More’s  book  has  passed  into 
English  literature. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  a book  by  so  distinguished  an  author, 
and  one  that  had  such  a wide  and  immediate  influence,  should 
have  had  to  wait  so  long  for  publication  both  in  the  author’s  own 
country  and  in  his  native  language.  For  this  there  were  several 
reasons.  After  More’s  death  liis  memory  was  proscribed  so  long 
as  Henry  VIII  was  alive.  The  Tudors  maintained  a strict  control  of 
the  press  and  it  would  have  required  very  great  courage  to  issue 
a book  by  a man  who  had  been  executed  as  a traitor.'  And  while 
More  was  alive  he  had  probably  no  great  interest  in  its  appearance  in 
English.  He  was  a member  of  the  international  of  scholars,  among 
whom  Latin  was  the  common  and  familiar  mbdium  of  com- 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS 


45 


munication.  So  long  as  his  friends  in  all  countries  could  read  his 
work  he  was  satisfied,  for,  as  we  shall  sec,  More  was  no  revolu- 
tionary in  the  sense  of  wishing  to  arouse  the  people  to  a sense  of 
their  wrongs  or  to  start  any  kind  of  movement  among  the  mass  of 
the  exploited.  But,  more  important  still,  the  book  sailed  far  too 
close  to  the  wind  for  its  immediate  publication  in  English  to  be 
altogether  safe.  Not  only  did  it  advocate  commujiism:  that  might 
have  been  p;:ssed  over  as  the  pleasant  conceit  of  a pUtonic 
philosopher,  but  it  contained  the  most  savage  criticism,  explicit 
as  well  as  implied,  of  the  actual  government  of  England.  As 
Erasmus  said: 

‘‘He  published  his  Utopia  for  the  purpose  of  showing  what 
are  the  things  that  occasion  mischiefs  in  commonwealths; 
having  the  English  constitution  espeiJally  in  view,  which  he 
so  thcjrougMy  knows  and  under ^tands.” 

It  was  far  wiser  to  leave  such  a book  in  a learned  tongue  and  to 
allow  it  to  be  published  unostentatiously  in  Louvain  or  Paris. 

« 

2.  More  the  Conwmnist 

No  one  could  possibly  doubt  that  I Hopia  was  a j’)icturc  of  an 
England  in  which  money  did  not  “bear  all  the  stroke’^  and  with 
its  criticism  of  the  power  and  corruption  of  v/ealth  went  an  equally 
devastating  picture  of  the  abuse  of  royal  power.  The  Utopians 
certainly  had  a prince  and  a magistracy  who,  while  they  were  in 
office,  were  given  'bso^ute  authority  wnthin  the  limits  of  the 
constitution.  But  they  were  elected  autcjcrats  whose  power  was 
derived  from  the  people  and  who  were  lemovable  if  that  power 
was  abused.  In  practice,  moreover,  the  main  work  of  the  magis- 
trate was  to  control  and  organise  the  economic  h’fe  of  the  country: 

“The  chiefe  and  almooste  the  onely  ofFyee  of  the  Sypho- 
grauntes  is  to  see  and  take  hcede,  that-  no  manne  sit  idle:  but  that 
everye  one  applye  hys  owne  craft  with  earnest  diligence.” 

The  obligation  upon  all  to  w*»rk  (except  for  a small  number  of 
scholars  who  were  deliberately  set  free  to  specialise  in  the  pursuit 
of  learniiig)L  had  as  its  counterpart  the  right  of  all  to  enjoy  the 
products  of  this  social  labour: 

“In  the  myddest  of  every  quarter  there  is  a market  place  of  all 
manner  of  thinges.  Thither  the  workes  of  every  familie  be 


46 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


brought  into  certeyne  houses.  And  everye  kynde  of  thing  is 
layde  up  severall  in  barnes  or  store-houses.  From  hence  the 
father  of  everye  familie,  or  everye  householder  fetcheth  what- 
soever he  and  his  have  need  of,  and  carrieth  it  away  with  him 
without  money,  without  exchange,  without  any  gage,  pawne  or 
pledge.  For  whye  shoulde  anything  be  denyed  him?  seeing  there 
is  abundance  of  all  things,  and  it  is  not  to  be  feared,  lesle  any 
man  wyll  aske  more  than  he  necdeth.  For  why  should  it  be 
thoughte  that  any  man  woulde  aske  more  than  enough,  which 
is  sure  never  to  lacke?” 

This  communism  of  the  Utopians,  based  upon  abundance  and 
security,  passes  far  beyond  the  vulgar  equalitarianism  of  the 
petty  bourgeois  socialists  who  failed  to  see  that  equality  could  be 
nothing  but  the  abolition  of  classes,  and  approaches  the  con- 
ception of  the  ^higher  phase  of  communist  society’,  where,  as 
Marx  said  in  the  Criiique  of  the  Gotha  Programme, 

‘‘when  the  productive  forces  of  society  have  expanded  pro- 
portionally with  the  multiform  development  of  the  individuals 
of  whom  society  is  made  up  —then  will  the  narrow  bourgeois 
outlook  be  utterly  transcended,  and  then  will  society  inscribe 
upon  its  banners;  ‘From  everyone  according  to  his  capacities, 
to  everyone  according  to  his  ncedsl’” 

More  understood,  what  Morris  understood  later,  but  what  many 
even  among  socialists  still  fail  to  understand,  that  this  principle 
is  not  an  idle  fantasy  but  the  only  practical  basis  for  the  organi- 
sation of  a classless  society.  Reason  led  the  learned  Humanist  to 
the  same  conclusions  as  those  already  instinctively  grasped  by 
the  simple  men  who  had  depicted  The  Laud  of  Cokajgne. 

In  some  ways  it  was  easier  for  them  and  for  More  to  reach  this 
conception  than  it  has  been  for  others  who  had  to  live  in  a fully 
capitalist  society.  England  in  the  sixteenth  century,  in  spite  of  the 
development  of  commodity  production,  still  retained  much  of  the 
primitive  agrarian  collectivism  that  had  persisted  under  cover  of 
feudalism.  Though  the  family  had  an  individual  tenement,  this 
land  lay  scattered  with  those  of  the  other  members  of  the  town- 
ship throughout  the  common  fields  and  its  working  depended  on 
the  joint  plough  team  and  involved  a considerable  co-operation 
at  certain  times.  And  even  in  More’s  day,  when  the  gap  between 
town  and  country  was  widening,  even  quite  cotisiderable  towns 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS  47 

had  Still  theif  common  fields,  and  when  More  writes  of  the 
Utopians  that: 

“When  their  harvest  day  draweth  ncare,  and  is  at  hand, 
then  the  Philarches,  which  be  the  head  officers  and  bailiffs  of 
husbandrie,  send  worde  to  the  magistrates  of  the  citie  what 
number  of  harvest  men  is  ncedfull  to  be  sent  to  them  outc  of  the 
citie.  The  whiche  companye  of  harvest  men  being  ready  at  the 
day  appoynted,  almost  in  one  fayre  day  dispacheth  all  the 
harvest  worke.” 

he  had  in  his  mind  a picture  not  very  different  from  what  might 
still  have  been  seen  in  the  England  of  bis  own  time.  More’s 
communism,  that  is  to  say,  is  not  merely  an  iniaginative  picture 
of  something  that  might  happen  in  the  future,  but  even  more  the 
extension  and  transformation  of  something  already  existing  to  the 
conditions  of  a society  different  from  his  own  but  nevertheless 
related  to  it  and  arising  out  of  it. 

The  most  difficult  question  was  that  of  the' means  by  which 
this  transformation  could  be  effected,  and  hert  More,  in  common 
with  most  of  the  Utopian<-,  was  at  his  weakest.  Certainly  he  had 
not,  and  could  not  have  had,  any  conception  of  the  long,  painful 
and  still  far  from  completed  historical  process  by  which  capital- 
ism was  to  create  its  antithesis.  Consequently  the  picture  of  Utopia 
is  touched  with  melancholy,  rising  to  die  conclusion: 

*‘So  must  I needs  confessc  and  graunte  that  many  thinges  be 
in  the  Utopian  wcai.  publique,  which  in  our  cidcs  I may  rather 
wishc  for,  than  hope  after.” 

The  least  attractive  feature  >f  the  Utopian  life  is  its  lack  of 
trust  in  the  ordinary  activities  of  common  people.  Even  in  the 
communal  dining-rooms  the  old  must  sit  with  the  young,  to 
“keep  the  youngers  from  wanton  licence  of  wordes  and  be- 
havioure”.  There  are  to  be  “no  lurkinge  corners,  no  places  of 
wycked  counsels  or  unlawfu’  'issemblcs.  But  they  be  in  the 
presente  sighte  and  under  the  eyes  of  every  man”.  No  citizen  may 
travel  about  the  country,  much  less  go  abroad,  without  special 
leave  from  the  magistrates,  and,  though  this  leave  is  easily 
obtained,  “no  man  goeth  out  alone  but  a companie  is  sente  forth”. 
And,  though  laws  are  few  and  punishments  merciful  by  the 
standard  of  More’s  time,  we  have  to  infer  that  in  spite  of  the 


4^  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

abolition  of  private  property  and  of  classes,  crime  is  still  common 
enough  to  provide  a considerable  number  of  bondmen.  Man,  in 
fact,  is  changed  much  less  than  his  surroundings,  and  it  is  clear 
that  this  aspect  of  Utopia  reflects  Morels  own  lack  of  confidence 
in  the  common  man.  This  arises  both  from  his  own  class  position 
and  that  of  the  Humanists  generally  and  from  the  whole  relation 
of  class  forces  at  that  time. 

More  came  from  the  upper  section  of  the  London  merchants, 
a class  which  always  suffered  in  periods  of  disorder  and  which  had 
just  passed  through  the  dislocati’>n  caused  by  a prolonged  civil 
war.  The  memory  of  Cade’s  Rebellion,  of  which  Shakespeare 
gives  us  the  typical  upper-class  view,  was  still  fresh  and  was 
reinforced  by  more  recent  disturbances.  And  More,  who,  as  we 
have  seen,  frequently  acted  as  the  spokesman  of  the  city,  shared 
much  of  its  outlook  in  spite  of  his  genuine  concern  for  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  people.  As  Kautsky  says: 

“Now  More  was  in  a practical  respect  the  representative  of 
their  interests,  although  in  his  theoretical  outlook  he  was  more 
advanced.  Capital  has  always  called  for  ‘order’,  only  occasionally 
for  ‘freedom’.  Order  was  its  most  vital  element;  More,  who  had 
become  great  in  the  minds  of  the  London  middle  class,  was 
therefore  a ‘man  of  order’  who  disliked  nothing  more  than  the 
independent  action  of  the  people.  All  for  the  people  but  nothing 
by  the  people  was  his  watchword.” 

He  was  not  the  man  to  lead  a revolution,  even  if  revolution  had 
been  possible,  and  later  he  looked  with  horror  at  the  Peasant  War 
in  Germany,  seeing  in  it  a natural  consequence  of  Luther’s  error  in 
encouraging  the  masses  to  concern  themselves  in  matters  which 
they  had  not  the  capacity  to  understand. 

It  must  also  be  remembered  that  the  suffering  masses  in  More’s 
time  were  very  far  from  being  a proletariat  in  the  modern  sense  of 
the  word.  They  were  expropriated  peasants,  servants  turned 
adrift,  or,  at  best,  handicraftmen  exploited  by  the  rich  merchants 
— ^More’s  own  class.  In  any  case  they  were  individuals^  just  losing 
their  accustomed  occupations  and  social  groupings  and  not  yet 
reintegrated  by  the  education  of  large  scale  machine  industry. 
Such  a class  was  capable  of  outbursts  of  revolt,  -dangerous  in 
proportion  to  their  sufferings  and  their  despair.  It  did  not  afford 
the  basis  on  which  a new  social  order  could  be  established.  Yet, 
if  Utopia  was  to  be  more  than  a dream,  such«a  basis  had  to  be 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS 


49 


sought.  This  search  gives  us  the  key,  not  only  to  the  under- 
standing of  Utopia  but  also  to  More’s  whole  career,  and  it 
involves  some  consideration  of  the  role  of  the  state  in  the  sixteenth 
century. 

The  modern  state  is  one  of  the  consequences  of  the  rise  of 
capitalism.  Production  for  the  market  demands  a larger  unit  than 
the  medieval  village  or  even  the  small  town  springing  up  around 
some  castle  oy  abbey.  The  state  provides  a national  basis  for 
production  and  distribution  and  a greater  security  for  inter- 
national trade.  It  ensures  more  efficient  policing,  better  com- 
munications, uniform  laws  and  customs  and  common  standards 
of  measurement.  For  all  these  things  a strong  central  govern- 
ment is  necessary,  capable  of^  reducing  the  nobilitv  to  order. 
Heiice  the  king,  who  under  feudalism  in  the  form  in  which  it 
existed  in  the  Middle  Ages  is  no  more  than  the  strongest  land- 
owner, now  becomes  the  pivot  of  the  state  apparatus.  It  was  this 
fact,  together  with  the  fact  that  the  bourgeoisie  is  still  in  a state  of 
transition,  not  strong  enough  to  rule  independently  but  ready  to 
lend  its  support  to  a government  which  was  capable  of  giving 
It  the  conditions  necessary  tor  its  continued  progress,  which 
determined  the  form  taken  by  the  Tudor  monarchy. 

But  the  Tudor  state  had  a double  nature.  The  state  was  progres- 
sive because  society  was  ready  to  emerge  from  feudal  atomism: 
the  state  stood  for  social  stability  and  organisation  as  against 
anarchy.  And  so  the  bourgeoisie,  and  therefore  More  and  the 
Humanists,  were  bound  to  appro Vi,  and  support  the  growth  of 
the  state.  On  the  oti^^r  hand  the  state  was  clearly  and  openlv 
predatory  and  oppressive  and  its  rulers  were  obviously  corrupt 
and  selfish,  so  that  any  man  ' ho  genuinely  cared,  as  More  did 
about  social  justice,  could  n^t  but  find  himself  frequently  in 
opposition  both  to  the  state  and  to  its  rulers.  Hence  More's  bitter 
inner  conflict,  which  finds  expression  in  the  first  book  of  Utopia 
and  colours  his  whole  life.  The  only  hope  of  progress  was  for 
the  Humanists  to  secure  the  ear  of  piinces,  to  guide  and  mould 
their  policies.  But  was  this  po'  '.ible  in  view  of  the  knowm  charac- 
ter of  the  actually  existing  princes?  ‘‘From  the  prince,  as  from  a 
perpetual  wel  sprynge,  commethe  amonge  the  people  the  floode 
of  al  tha^is  good  or  evell”,  without  the  prince  nothing  could  be 
done,  but  did  not  this  mean  that  the  case  was  hopeless?  So  the 
argument  develops  between  More  and  Hythloday. 

Kautsky,  I think,  fails  to  understand  the  point  of  it: 


50 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


“In  estimating  the  book,”  he  writes,  “we  must  no  more  be 
misled  by  the  homage  paid  to  the  King  than  we  should  judge 
the  materialists  of  the  eighteenth  century  by  the  reverence  they 
occasionally  accorded  to  Christianity.  . . . More  assigned  the 
championship  of  his  ideas  to  Ilythloday,  while  he  introduces 
himself  as  the  critic  of  his  ideas.  . , . The  whole  passage  is  a 
scorching  satire  on  the  contemporary  monarchy.  It  constitutes 
More’s  political  confession  of  faith,  and  his  justification  for 
holding  aloof  from  the  Court.” 

Kautsky,  consequently,  finds  it  hard  to  understand  More’s 
subsequent  action  in  entering  the  royal  service  and  has  some 
difficulty  in  defending  him  against  the  charge  of  inconsistency. 
I think  it  would  be  far  truer  to  say  that  the  dialogue,  while  it 
certainly  voices  a ruthless  criticism  of  contemporary  government, 
is  an  expression  of  More’s  argument  with  himself.  Hythloday’s 
criticisms  certainly  ring  true,  but  so  does  More’s  reply: 

“^'hat  part  soever  you  have  taken  upon  you,  playe  that  as 
well  as  you  can  and  make  the  best  of  it . . . you  mustc  not  forsake 
the  shippe  in  the  tempest,  because  you  cannot  rule  and  keep 
downc  the  winds.  ...  But  you  mast  with  a crafty  wile  and  a 
subtell  trainc  study  and  endeavour  youre  selfe  . . . and  that 
which  you  can  not  turne  to  good,  so  to  order  that  it  be  not 
verye  badde.” 

There  could  but  be  one  outcome  to  such  an  argument.  More  did 
not  wish  to  remain  a mere  satirist,  isolated  and  ineffective.  The 
chance  that  somctlung  could  be  done  tlirough  the  crown  might  be 
small,  but  there  was  no  other  chance.  And  so,  regretfully  and 
heavy  with  misgivings.  More  entered  the  royal  service.  His  state 
of  mind  is  mirrored  in  the  speech  which  he  made  upon  taking 
office  as  Lord  (Chancellor: 

“I  ascend  this  seat  as  a post  full  of  troubles  and  dangers  and 
without  any  real  honour.  The  higher  the  post  of  honour  the 
greater  the  fall,  as  the  example  of  my  predecessor  fVv  olscy] 
proves.” 

His  misgivings  were  only  too  well  justified.  Henry  had  no  use 
for  a servant  who  wanted  to  help  the  people  or  remould  society 
according  to  the  dictates  of  philosophy.  He  wished  to  use  More’s 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS 


51 


reputation  for  learning  and  sanctity  and  his  powerful  influence  in 
the  City  as  a cover  for  his  own  selfish  policies.  For  nearly  three 
years  More  attempted  to  reconcile  conscience  and  policy,  but  in 
1 532  he  felt  himself  bound  to  resign  because  of  his  opposition  to 
Henry’s  divorce  and  to  his  attitude  to  church  questions.  Out  of 
office  he  immediately  became  dangerous  because  his  known 
integrity  was  a standing  argument  against  what  the  king  was  set 
upon  doing.  Jt  became  necessary  to  win  him  over  or  to  silence 
him.  The  former  proved  impossible:  More  was  therefore  sent  to 
the  Tower  and  in  1 5 3 5 beheaded  on  a manifestly  absurd  charge  of 
treason.  He  was  the  first,  as  he  has  been  the  last,  philosopher  to 
attempt  to  engage  directly  in  the  government  of  ["aigland.i 
His  tragedy  was  none  the  less  moving  because  he  made  his 
attempt  with  such  faint  hopes  and  v ith  his  eyes  so  fully  opened 
to  the  realities  of  the  situation.  He  knew  well  what  forces  were 
at  work,  and  how  strong  they  were,  as  is  well  shc^wn  in  the  famous 
passage  in  U/opia  on  the  state,  a passage  strikingly  in  agreement 
with  the  view  reached  centuries  later  bv  Marx,  hngcls  and  Lenin, 
and  as  strikingly  at  variance  with  that  of  every  kind  of  liberal  and 
social-democratic  political  theorist  from  his  time  to  ours. 

“The  riche  men,”  he  wrote,  “not  only  by  private  fraud,  but 
also  by  common  laws  do  every  day  pluck  and  snatche  away 
from  the  poore  some  part  of  their  daily  living.  So  whereas  it 
seemed  before  unjustc  to  recompense  with  unkindness  their 
pains  that  have  been  bencficiall  to  the  publique  weale,  nowc 
they  have  to  this  their  wrong  and  unjustc  dcalinge  (which  is 
yet  a much  worse  pointe)  given  the  name  of  justice,  yea  and 
that  by  force  of  a law.  Therefore  when  I consider  and  weigh  in 
my  mind  all  these  commonwealthes,  wdiich  now-a-dayes  any 
where  do  flourish,  so  good  help  me,  1 can  perceavc  nothing  but 
a certcin  conspiracy  of  riche  men  procuring  their  ownc 
commodities  under  the  name  and  title  of  the  commonwealth. 
They  invent  and  devise  all  meanes  and  craftes,  first  how  to 
keep  safely,  without  fearc  of  losing,  that  they  have  unjustly 
gathered  together,  and  next  how  to  hire  and  abuse  the  workc 
and  laboure  of  the  poore  for  as  little  money  as  may  be.  These 
device's,  \^hen  the  riche  men  have  decreed  to  be  kept  and  observed 
under  the  coloure  of  the  commonaltie,  that  is  to  saye,  also  of 
the  poor  people,  then  they  be  made  laws.” 

1 With  the  exception  of  Bacon  and  the  possible  exception  of  Arthur  Balfour! 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


5^ 

The  quotation  that  stands  at  the  head  of 'this  chapter  shows  that 
in  Morels  own  time,  or  shortly  after,  this  was  recognised  as  one 
of  the  central  ideas  in  the  Utopia^  for  the  importance  of  Nashe  is 
that  he  was  one  of  the  acutest  journalists  of  his  time,  a man  with 
no  new  or  profound  ideas  of  his  own,  but  with  a remarkable 
aptitude  for  seeing  upon  whatever  ideas  were  then  current  in 
intellectual  circles. 

This  conception  of  the  state  differs  in  one  important  respect 
from  that  of  modern  socialism.  It  is  imhistorical,  allowing  no 
place  for  growth  and  development.  Consequently  the  estab- 
lishment of  a model  commonwealth  could  only  be  a kind  of 
accident  or  miracle,  the  work  of  a prince,  who  is  imagined  as 
something  apart  from  the  class  forces  which  normally  dominate 
the  state.  Utopia  has  very  little  history,  but  what  we  are  told  of  its 
origin  bears  this  out:  the  island  was  conquered  by,  and  took  its 
name  from,  the  great  King  Utopus, 

^‘which  also  broughtc  the  rude  and  wild  people  to  that  excellent 
perfection  in  all  good  fashions,  humanityc  and  civile  gentil- 
ness.” 

Utopia  had  to  be  a miracle.  More  could  sec  what  was  wrong  and 
what  was  needed,  but  he  would  have  been  more  than  human  to 
see  at  that  time  the  historical  process  by  which  socialism  could 
be  realised. 

There  is  a further  deduction  to  be  drawn  from  More’s  theory  of 
the  state.  England  was,  as  we  have  seen,  a country  of  increasing 
wealth  and  increasing  poverty.  More  was  one  of  the  first  to  sec 
the  relation  between  these  facts,  to  understand  that  the  rich  were 
becoming  richer  because  they  were  finding  new  and  more  effective 
ways  of  robbing  the  poor.  Hence  we  find  in  his  work  what  Morris 
calls 

“an  atmosphere  of  asceticism,  which  has  a curiously  blended 
savour  of  Cato  the  Censor  and  a medieval  monk.” 

Kautsky,  too,  speaks  of  the  frugality  of  Utopia  as  a feature  con- 
tradictory to  modern  socialism.  This  is  indeed  the  case.  The 
Utopians  rejected  all  luxury  and  display.  Their  houses,  though 
made  of  the  best  material  and  carefully  designed,  were  plain  and 
simple,  their  clothes  uncoloured  and  all  cut  to  the  same  pattern, 
their  meals  ample  and  certainly  far  more  balanced  than  those  of 
the  England  of  the  time,  but  plain  and  moderate.  Jewels  were 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS  J} 

playthings  of  children,  and,  as  a lesson  in  the  vanity  of  riches, 
gold  was  employed  to  make  chains  for  bondmen,  and  for  chamber 
pots.^ 

For  this  there  were  several  reasons.  To  a certain  extent  it  was 
a part  of  the  common  heritage  of  classicism  of  the  Humanists, 
who,  like  the  theoreticians  of  the  French  Revolution  later,  loved 
to  insist  on  the  stern  frugality  of  the  republican  heroes  of  ancient 
Rome.  But  in*the  case  of  More  there  were  other  reasons,  more 
personal  and  more  important.  The  first  was  the  connection,  just 
mentioned,  between  wealth  and  poverty.  More  was  revolted  by 
the  luxury  of  the  ruling  class  of  his  time  because  he  saw  that  this 
luxury  was  the  result  of  the  surrounding  poverty.  If  poverty  was 
to  be  banished  from  Utopia,  the  luxury  wluch  produced  it  must 
be  banished  also.  The  tlfird  reason  was  more  positive. 

The  Utopians  were  no  killjoys,  opposed  to  pleasure  and 
recreation  in  themselves: 

“They  be  muche  inclined  to  this  opinion:  to  thinke  no  kind 
of  pleasure  forbydden  whereof  commeth  no  harme.” 

More  looked  around  at  the  ceaseless  labour  of  the  people  which 
was  necessary  to  provide  the  luxuries  of  the  rich,  and  concluded 
that  the  most  important  end  to  be  secured  in  Utopia  was  an  abun- 
dance of  leisure  in  which  human  faculties  could  be  developed  to 
the  full,  so  that  people  could  become  real  men  and  women  and 
not  mere  drudges: 

“The  magistrates  do  not  exercise  theire  citi2ens  againste 
theire  willes  in  unneedful  laboures  ...  so  that  what  time  may 
possibly  be  spared  from  the  unnccessarye  occupations  and 
affayres  of  the  common  wealth,  all  that  the  citizens  shoulde 
withdrawe  from  the  bodily  service  of  the  same.  For  herein 
they  suppose  the  fclicitie  of  this  life  to  consiste.’* 

To  any  socialist  society  at  some  point  or  another  a choice  may 
present  itself:  more  leisure  or  more  production.  In  the  modern 
world,  with  all  the  great  and  increasing  resources  of  science  and 
technique,  this  point  would  certainly  not  be  reached  till  long  after 

all  the  reasonable  needs  and  desires  of  men  have  been  satisfied. 

• • 

Indeed,  it  is  possible  that  the  problem  may  never  really  arise  at  all, 
that  under  socialism  we  really  have  our  cake  and  eat  it.  But 

^ Lenin  has  also  suggested  that  gold  should  be  used  for  the  construction  of 
public  lavatories! 


54 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


for  More,  living  in  a world  based  on  handicraft  production,  it 
arose  very  sharply,  and  he  solved  it  by  insisting  for  his  Utopians 
upon  a maximum  Avorking  day  of  six  hours.  This,  as  he  shows  in 
some  detail,  was  ample  for  the  provision  of  all  necessaries  as  well 
as  for  the  comfort  and  pleasure  needed  to  ensure  that  the  best  use 
was  made  of  the  ample  leisure  so  secured. 

One  result  of  this  ample  leisure  is  the  great  importance  of 
education  in  Utopia.  Education  was  neither  a mystery  confined  to 
a small  literate  class  as  in  More’s  Imgland,  nor  something  doled 
out  in  carefully  measured  packets  to  children  during  a certain 
number  of  years  and  then  forgotten  because  it  had  little  or  no 
relation  to  life,  as  in  our  own,  but  a continuous  attempt  to  under- 
stand the  world  in  which  the  whole  people  took  part,  and  in 
which,  though  there  were  specialists  in  learning,  these  were  not 
a sect  isolated  from  the  people,  but  the  advance  guard  of  the 
whole,  the  leaders  of  an  enterprise  in  which  all  could  participate. 
And  learning  was  valued  and  respected,  not  as  a thing  in  itself  nor 
yet  as  an  indication  of  a certain  social  standing,  but  as  a means  of 
developing  man’s  capacities  to  their  fullest. 

For  the  rest,  their  leisure  hours  were  spent  by  the  Utopians 
mainly  in  some  form  of  social  recreation,  conversation,  music  or 
games.  More  mentions  two  games  not  unlike  chess,  but  all  sports 
involving  cruelty  were  forbidden  and  nothing  is  said  of  any  form 
of  physical  exercises,  probably  because  in  that  time  these  were 
the  pastimes  of  the  ruling  class  and  there  was  not  then  the  present 
large  proportion  of  the  population  employed  at  cramping  or 
sedentary  tasks  for  whom  some  such  active  form  of  recreation  is 
a necessary  relaxation.  Altogether  it  was  a quiet,  dignified  and 
uneventful  life  which  went  on  in  Utopia,  a land  almost  without 
history,  a land  with  a constant  population  and  a constitution  and 
economy  that  had  remained  unchanged  since  the  time  of  Utopus 
the  Good.  And  there  is  little  reason  to  think  that  the  Utopians 
were  not  extremely  happy  in  the  same  way  that  More  liimself  was 
happy  when  at  home  with  his  family  and  his  friends,  and  not 
vexed  with  the  insoluble  problems  of  social  justice.  It  was,  in  fact, 
the  life  that  More  would  have  liked  to  be  able  to  live,  and  one 
which  could  reasonably  have  been  expected  to  tend  to  produce 
men  like  More. 

It  was  further,  as  we  have  seen,  a society  without  exploitation 
and  therefore  without  classes.  A few  words  should  be  said  about 
the  apparent  exceptions  to  this.  First  were  the  magistrates,  rising 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS 


55 


in  various  grades  to  the  king.  But  these  were  in  no  sense  a class  or 
caste.  They  were  chosen  freely  from  among  the  most  able  of  the 
philosophers,  as  these  were  in  turn  chosen  from  the  people,  for 
their  capacity.  They  had  no  special  privileges  and  were  subject  to 
frequent  re-election.  Their  children  had  the  same  education, 
upbringing  and  opportunities  as  those  of  the  rest  of  the  citizens, 
and  no  office  was  in  any  sense  hereditary. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  scale  were  the  bondmen.  These  appear 
in  Utopia  for  two  reasons.  First  as  Mote’s  solution  to  the  problem 
of  crime.  In  his  time  death  was  the  normal  penalty  for  most  sorts 
of  crime  and  hundreds  of  men  were  hanged  every  year  for  petty 
thefts  and  similar  offences.  Minor  offences  were  punished  by 
flogging,  branding  or  exposuie  in  the  storks  or  pillory.  This, 
More  saw,  was  not  only  inhuman,  but,  because  of  its  inhumanity, 
actually  helped  to  increase  crime,  which  in  any  case  sprang  rather 
from  the  nature  of  society  than  from  the  inherent  wickedness  of 
the  criminal.  Rather  illogically,  he  anticipated  that  crime  would 
continue  to  exist  oti  a cc  nsiderablc  scale  in  Ut*)piai  and  he  pro- 
posed as  a remedy  to  employ  criminals  to  do  all  the  uixpleasant  and 
degrading  jobs  which  he  supposed  his  free  citizens  (whose  free- 
dom included  the  right  to  choose  their  own  trades)  would  not 
willingly  undertake,  or  which  he  was  unwilling  to  allow  them  to 
undertake  because  of  the  moral  dangers  involved.  I’his  system  of 
bondage,  if  it  seems  out  of  place  in  a classless  society,  was  at  least 
far  more  humane  and  far  more  practical  than  an\  thing  that  existed 
in  the  sixteenth  centu  y.  And  sccondl},  this  system  was  a positive 
solution  of  the  problem,  with  which  socialists  arc  always  being 
faced,  of  who  will  do  the  uiij  leasant  work  in  a socialist  society. 
It  is  a problem  which  is  now  ^'easing  to  exist  as  the  development 
of  technique  reduces  the  amount  of  such  work,  but  it  is  (me  with 
which  many  of  the  Utopian  writers  have  been  faced  and  which 
they  have  solved  in  a variety  of  ways.  It  was  a very  real  problem 
for  More,  who  had  to  construct  a soci.dist  society  on  the  basis  of 
hand  production.  He  solved  it  as  we  have  seen,  partly  by  reducing 
wants  through  the  abolition  of  luxury  and  partly  by  this  system  of 
bondsmen.  It  must  be  noticed,  however,  that  the  bondsmen  do 
not  constitute  a class,  any  more  than  convicts  constitute  a class  in 
modern 'so(:iety.  They  were  cf>ndemned  to  their  tasks  partly  as 
punishment  but  more  with  the  hope  of  reformation.  In  many 

^ Or  perhaps  he  avowed  himself  to  be  a little  illot'ical  in  order  i<>  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  preaching  his  sermon  on  the  proper  way  to  deal  with  criminal^ 


56  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

cases  their  bondage  was  temporary.  But  in  no  case  did  it  affect 
the  position  of  their  families,  who  had  all  the  normal  rights  of 
citi2enship. 

A similar  problem  is  that  of  the  relation  of  town  and  country. 
In  the  Middle  Ages  the  country  was  dominant,  the  town,  with  a 
few  exceptions,  no  more  than  an  enlarged  village.  But  the  de- 
velopment of  capitalism  created  a continually  widening  gulf,  the 
town  became  more  and  more  a centre  of  independent  life  with 
a distinctive  urban  culture,  the  country  more  and  more  its  tribut- 
ary and  the  country  workers  more  and  more  sunk  in  what  Marx 
rather  harshly  calls  ‘‘rural  idiocy*^  The  town  and  the  new  class 
of  capitalists  became  identified  with  what  was  thought  of  as 
progress,  the  country  identified  with  stagnation.  It  would  be  hard 
to  say  whether  town  or  country  has  suffered  the  greater  loss  by 
this  separation,  and  it  is  one  of  the  tasks  of  socialism  to  restore 
the  unity  of  town  and  country  on  the  higher  plane  of  a common 
social  life.  More  had  his  own  solution,  based,  again,  on  the 
existing  level  of  technique  and  transport,  within  the  conditions  of 
which  life  in  the  country  could  not  but  be  ruder  and  more  iso- 
lated than  that  of  the  towns. 

Agriculture  was  carried  on  by  large  households  and  all  citizens 
had  the  obligation  to  spend  at  least  two  years  in  the  country, 
each  city  having  its  rural  area  which  it  supplied  with  labour  and 
from  which  it  received  its  food.  In  this  way  everyone  learnt  the 
rudiments  of  agriculture  and  a much  larger  labour  force  could  be 
mobilised  on  special  occasions.  This  was  done 

“to  the  intent  that  no  man  shall  be  constrayned  againste  his 
will  to  contynew  long  in  that  harde  and  sharpe  kynd  of  lyfe,  yet 
manye  of  them  have  such  a pleasure  and  delyte  in  husbandrye 
that  they  obteyne  a longer  space  of  yeares.” 

In  this  way  the  feeding  of  Utopia  was  secured  without  cutting  off 
any  of  the  people  from  the  civilised  life  which  More  regarded  as 
proper  to  man:  at  the  same  time  the  townsmen  were  not  cut  off 
from  the  simpler  and  more  primitive  life  of  the  countryside. 

One  more  detailed  point  requires  consideration,  especially  as  it 
has  led  to  some  dispute  and  misunderstanding.  This  is  the  religion 
of  Utopia  and  the  religious  toleration  practised  there.  Unlike 
England  and  all  other  countries  known  to  More,  Utopia  was 
able  to  accommodate  a variety  of  religions.  These  were  all  mono- 
theistic and  sufficiently  similar  and  undogmatic  to  allow  of  a 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS  57 

common  form  of  worship  which  did  not  offend  the  followers  of 
any.  Priests  were  of  exceeding  holiness  “and  therefore  very  few”. 
Hythloday  began  the  conversion  of  the  Utopians  to  Christianity^ 
with  which  their  pre-existing  religions  did  not  greatly  conflict. 
The  peculiarity  of  the  Utopians,  however,  was  that  the  principle 
of  toleration  was  fully  recognised.  King  Utopus  having  made  a 
decree  that  “it  should  be  lawfull  for  everie  man  to  favoure  and 
folow  what  religion  he  would”.  Even  atheists  were  tolerated, 
though  they  were  forbidden  to  advocate  their  views  publicly  and 
were  not  eligible  for  any  public  office. 

This  undoubtedly  represents  More’s  view  of  what  is  desirable, 
and  it  is  often  argued  that  when  he  became  Chancellor  his 
conduct  in  attacking  and  even  persecuting  Lutherans  was  at 
variance  with  and  a descent  from,  the  doctrines  he  had  preached 
in  Utopia.  More,  in  fact,  is  held  to  have  sinned  against  the  Light. 
Such  a view  is,  I think,  mistaken.  Se^-ting  aside  the  question  of 
how  far  More  actually  was  a persecutor,  about  which  there  is  some 
doubt,  it  can  only  arise  from  a failure  to  understand  what  he 
really  says  in  Utopia.  His  position  is  perfectly  clear.  After  referring 
to  the  decree  of  Utopus  which  I have  quoted  above,  he  goes  on 
to  say  that  everyone  had  the  right  to  persuade  others  to  his  belief, 
so  long  as  this  was  done  peaceably,  “without  displeasant  and 
seditious  words,” 

“To  him  that  would  vehemently  and  ferventlye  in  this  cause 

strive  and  contende,  was  decreed  banishment  or  bondage.” 

This  was  More’s  own  principle  of  action.  We  have  seen  that  he 
distrusted  and  feared  any  popular  movement  or  any  violent  over- 
turning of  the  existing  order,  and  to  him  Lutheranism,  with  its 
appeal  to  the  masses  and  its  apparent  responsibility  for  the  risings 
of  the  peasantry  in  Germany,  was  such  a movement.  With  indi- 
vidual Lutherans  he  was  able  to  enjoy  friendly  relations,  but 
against  the  movement,  which  seemed  to  him  to  threaten  ruin  and 
chaos,  he  could  not  but  struggle.  T am  not  here  concerned  with  the 
right  or  wrong  of  this  attitude:  what  I am  trying  to  show  is  that 
this  attitude  was  logical  and  self-consistent,  arising  from  the 
limitations  inyosed  upon  him  by  his  class  and  age,  limitations 
which  no-onc,  however  talented,  can  wholly  escape. 

And,  after  aU,  what  is  remarkable  about  More  is  not  his  limi- 
tations but  the  extent  to  which  they  were  transcended,  not  the 
fact  that  his  tolerance  had  limits  but  that  the  principle  of  toleration 


58  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

was  SO  plainly  set  forth,  not  the  occasionally  reactionary  features 
of  his  Utopia  but  its  broadly  communist  economy,  not  his  fear  of 
popular  action  but  his  understanding  of  the  causes  of  poverty 
and  his  real  desire  to  remove  them.  And  if,  as  I have  tried  to 
show,  his  life  and  writings  form  a logical  and  consistent  whole, 
it  is  in  the  Utopia  that  these  essential  features  show  most  clearly. 
Here  the  thought  is  most  luminous,  the  passion  most  evident,  and 
here,  in  the  nature  of  things,  the  socialism  which  could  not  but 
be  obscured  in  the  practical  difficulties  that  beset  the  statesman 
was  able  to  find  its  fullest  expression.  And  it  is  as  a pioneer  of 
socialism  rather  than  as  a saint  or  a philosoj^her  that  More  is 
enduringly  important. 

Utopia  is  at  once  a landmark  and  a connecting  link.  It  is  one  of 
the  great  works  of  controlled  and  scientific  imagination  in  which 
the  classless  society  is  visualised  and  mapped  out.  And  at  the 
same  time  it  is  the  link  connecting  the  aristocratic  communism 
of  Plato,  and  the  instinctive,  primitive  communism  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  with  the  scientific  communism  of  the  nineteenth 
and  twentieth  centuries.  This  modern  communism  has  two  main 
strands  or  legs,  and  More,  with  his  successors  among  utopian 
socialists,  prov  ides  one  of  them.  But  even  in  More's  day  there  was 
another  socialism,  that  of  Mun^icr  and  the  peasant  revolution- 
aries, which  in  its  turn  passes  through  a clearly  defined  channel: 
through  the  Levellers,  the  left  wing  in  the  French  Revolution,  the 
Luddites  and  the  (.'hartists,  till  it  too  is  ready  to  find  its  place  in 
the  structure  of  Marxism.  More  could  not  understand  this  other 
socialism,  and  what  he  saw  of  it  he  hated  and  feared.  This  was 
natural,  for  the  synthesis  of  the  philosophic  and  the  popular 
socialism  could  not  take  place  before  the  creation  of  the  revo- 
lutionary class,  the  proletariat,  for  which  it  was  the  appropriate 
theory.  It  is  enough  that  More  was  More  without  our  needing  to 
regret  that  he  was  not  also  Marx. 

It  does,  however,  follow  from  this  that  it  is  not  till  modern 
times  that  his  Utopia  could  be  properly  understood.  Until  the  birth 
of  scientific  socialism  it  was  no  more  than  'a  dream,  a pretty 
fantasy.  Readers  could  admire  this  commonwealth  in  which  peace 
and  justice  were  the  ruling  principles,  but  could  only  conclude 
regretfully,  with  More,  that  such  a commonwealth  was  more  to  be 
wished  than  hoped  after.  Today,  when  the  power  to  establish 
such  a commonwealth  lies  ready  to  our  hands,  it  is  possible  to  see 
how  exactly,  within  the  -limits  imposed  on  him  by  the  narrow 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SAINTS 


59 

handicraft  technique  of  his  age.  More  anticipates  the  most 
essential  features  of  a modern,  classless  society.  It  is  fitting, 
therefore,  to  quote  in  conclusion  the  words  of  the  first  great 
English  Marxist,  William  Morris,  who  is  also  the  writer  of  the 
only  book*  of  its  class  which  is  worthy  of  a place  beside  Utopia: 

socialists  cannot  forget  that  these  qualities  and  excel- 
lencies meet  tj)  produce  a steady  expression  of  the  longing  for 
a society  of  equality  of  conditions;  a society  in  which  the 
individual  man  can  scarcely  conceive  his  existence  apart  from 
the  Commonwealth  of  which  he  forms  a portion.  This,  which 
is  the  essence  of  his  book,  is  the  csst^nce  also  of  the  struggle 
in  which  we  are  engaged.  Though  doubtless  it  was  the  pressure 
of  circumstances  in  his  own  days  that  made  More  what  he  was, 
yet  that  pressure  forced  him  to  give  us,  not  a \ision  of  the 
triumph  of  the  new-born  eapitahstic  society,  the  elements  in 
which  lived  the  new  learning  and  the  new  freedom  of  thought 
of  his  epoch;  but  a picture  (his  own  indeed,  nor  ours)  of  the 
real  New  Birth  which  many  men  before  him  had  desired,  and 
which  now  indeed  \vc  may  well  hojK*  is  drawing  near  to  realisa- 
tion, though  after  such  a long  series  of  events  whicli  at  the  time 
of  their  happening  seemed  to  nullify  his  own  completely.’’ 


CHAPTER  m 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION 


Iret&n:  All  the  main  thing  that  I speak  for,  is  because  I would  have  an  eye  to  property. 
I hope  we  do  not  come  here  to  contend  for  victory — but  let  cvejy  man  consider  with 
himself  that  he  do  not  go  that  way  to  take  away  all  property.  For  here  is  the  most 
fundamental  part  of  the  constitution  of  the  kin^^dom,  which  if  you  take  away,  yovi 
take  away  all  by  that.  . . . 

Katnborough'  Sir,  I see  that  it  is  impossible  to  have  liberty  but  all  property  must 
be  taken  away.  If  it  bt  laid  down  for  a rule,  and  >ou  will  say  ir,  it  must  be  so. 
But  1 would  fain  know  what  the  soldier  hath  fought  for  all  this  uhile?  lie  hath 
fought  to  enslave  himself,  to  give  pouei  to  men  of  riches 

Debate  of  the  General  Comal  o]  the 
Army.  Putney,  October  29th,  1647. 


I.  New  Atlantic 

AT  no  other  time  is  there  such  a wealth  of  Utopian  speculation 
ijL  in  England  as  in  the  seventeenth  century.  And  at  no  time  is 
this  speculation  at  once  so  bold  and  practical  and  so  dry  and 
narrow.  In  this  age  of  revolution  Utopia  comes  closest  to 
immediate  politics  and  the  everyday  problems  of  government,  and 
in  doing  so  it  loses  as  \Kell  as  gains.  More,  as  we  have  seen,  was 
concerned  with  the  relation  of  wealth  and  poverty,  with  the 
abolition  of  classes,  and,  ultimately,  with  the  questions  of  human 
happiness  and  social  justice.  The  typical  Utopian  writers  of  the 
seventeenth  century  are  concerned  with  political  questions  in  the 
narrow  sense,  with  the  framing  of  a model  constitution  and  with 
its  working  machinery,  with  the  formation  and  character  of 
governments  and  the  perfection  of  parliamentary  representation. 
They  are  concerned,  in  short,  not  so  much  with  justice  as  with 
power. 

As  a result,  there  is  a complete  change  in  temper  and  style. 
We  find  nothing  to  correspond  to  More’s  breadth  of  vision,  his 
pity  and  anger,  his  doubts  and  the  wry  humour  with  which  these 
doubts  are  expressed.  Everything  now  is  dry,  precise  and  lawyer- 
like. There  is  a cool  confidence,  a bright,  hard  certamty  that  here, 
in  Macaria  or  Oceana,  is  the  one  true  light,  that  here  is  a practical 
programme  that  need  only  be  adopted  to  carry  the  revolution  to 
its  full  perfection.  And,  to  a very  large  extent,  this  confidence  was 
justified,  for  the  problem  which  had  baffled  ancl  tormented  More 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  6l 

had  been  solved,  the  bourgeoisie  had  won  power,  had  the  means 
of  making  their  desires  effective.  Hence,  as  this  Qiapter  will 
try  to  show,  there  was  a close  relationship  between  the  Utopian 
writings  and  the  active  framing  of  constitutions  which  went  on 
throughout  the  Commonwealth  period. 

This  change  in  the  climate  of  Utopia  corresponds  exactly  to 
the  change  in  the  English  political  climate.  We  have  seen  some- 
thing of  the  beginnings  of  the  development  of  capitalism;  of  the 
growth  and  decline  of  classes,  the  transfer  of  wealth  and  the 
peculiar  relations  which  existed  between  the  bourgeoisie  and  the 
House  of  Tudor.  The  Tudor  absolutism  gave  the  men  of  the  new 
wealth  the  necessary  shelter  and  breathing  space  in  which  to  grow 
strong:  ample  advantage  was  taken  of  this  opportunity,  till,  by 
the  end  of  the  century,  the  protection  had  ceased  to  be  a necessity 
and  the  protector  had  become  a burden.  In  alliance  with  the 
crown  the  bourgeoisie  had  decimated  the  peasantry,  humbled  the 
church,  crushed  Spain,  traversed  oceans  and  explored  new  con- 
tinents. Now,  appearing  for  the  first  time  in  history  as  an  indepen- 
dent force,  they  attacked  the  monarchy  itself,  deposed  and 
beheaded  a king  and  established  a republic.  For  a brief  space 
Utopia  ceased  to  be  a fiction  but  was  felt  by  thousands  to  be 
just  round  the  corner.  If  there  were  any  limits  to  the  power  of 
this  brave  new  class,  they  were  not  immediately  apparent. 

Before  the  confident  morning  of  the  revolution  there  was  a 
rather  bleak  dawn  period,  the  generation  in  which  the  alliance 
between  crown  and  br>urgeoisie  w^as  breaking,  when  the  tension 
of  events  created  bewilderment,  weariness  and  disillusion.  It  was 
the  period  of  Shakespeare’s  trag(  lies,  the  age  when  the  bounding 
extravagance  of  Tawburlaine  had  given  place  to  the  extravagant 
psychological  horrors  of  Webster.  To  this  period  belongs 
Francis  Bacon’s  Nen^  Atlantic ^ and  in  the  history  of  the  English 
Utopia  Bacon  is  the  link  connecting  More  with  the  utopian 
writers  of  the  revolutionary  period. 

Like  More,  Bacon  was  a member  of  a family  which  was 
prominent  in  the  service  of  the  crown,  was  trained  as  a lawyer  but 
combined  the  profession  of  law  with  a continuing  passion  for  philo- 
sophy, became  Lord  Chancellor  of  England,  and,  at  the  height  of 
his  fortune,  was  disgraced  and  driven  from  office.  Here,  however, 
the  parallel  ends,  for  few  men  have  ever  been  more  dissimilar  in 
their  interests  or  character.  There  is  perhaps  no  great  English 
writer  whose  persfinality  is  less  attractive  than  Bacon’s,  and  all  the 


62 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


elaborate  apologias  of  his  many  admirers  and  the  power  and 
magnificence  of  his  prose  only  increase  the  distaste  we  feel  in  the 
presence  of  the  man.  Never  was  such  a subtle  and  splendid  intellect 
employed  to  serve  meaner  or  more  trivial  ends,  and  neither  pride 
nor  gratitude  nor  loyalty  to  friends  were  allowed  to  brake  his 
climb  to  wealth  and  influence.  Grasping  timidity  and  profuse 
display  seemed  continually  to  deny  the  austere  impersonality  of 
the  philosopher’s  creed. 

Yet  this  is  only  a part  of  the  trutl:.  about  Bacon:  it  would  be 
quite  wrong,  I believe,  to  imagine  that  the  philosophy  was  not  both 
sincere  and  profoundly  felt.  Partly,  it  may  be,  the  very  subtlety  of 
the  intellect  deceived  itself,  but  more  than  that,  Bacon’s  character 
expresses  in  a new  form  the  essential  contradiction  within 
Humanism,  the  contradiction  that  lies  al  the  very  heart  of  the 
bourgeois  revolution.  Humanism  fought  to  liberate  mankind 
from  superstition  and  ignorance,  but  also  to  liberate  capitalist 
production  from  the  restraints  of  feudal  economy:  the  bourgeois 
revolution  was  waged  for  the  ultimate  advantage  of  mankind  as 
a whole  but  also  to  secure  for  a new  exploiting  class  power  to  rob 
and  to  become  rich,  and  in  this  revolution  meanness  and  nobilitv, 
cruel  oppression  and  generosity  are  inextricably  tangled.  The 
pursuit  of  truth' and  the  pursuit  of  wealth  often  seemed  the  same 
thing,  and,  whatever  Bacon’s  faults  may  ha\c  been,  about  the 
pursuit  of  truth  he  was  always  passionately  in  earnest. 

And  truth  for  Bacon  meant  power,  not  indeed  political  power, 
since  he  was  a loyal  servant  of  the  crown  and  well  content  with  the 
existing  order,  but  power  o\  er  nature  througli  the  understanding 
of  natural  law.  This  is  the  core  of  all  his  wx;)rk,  and  not  least  of  the 
Atlantic ^ which,  under  cover  of  describing  a utopian 
commonwealth  is  really  a prospectus  for  a state-endowed  college 
of  experimental  science.  It  was  the  work  of  hts  old  age,  written 
when,  over  sixty,  he  was  dismissed  and  ruined,  but  still  hoping 
against  all  reason  that  he  -might  be  restored  to  power.  It  was  a 
fragment  only,  begun  and  laid  aside  unfinished,  and  never  pub- 
lished in  his  life-time.  He  began  it  in  the  hope  that  James  1 would 
adopt  and  subsidise  his  proposals:  its  incomplete  state  is  the  proof 
of  the  final  abandonment  of  his  hopes,  and  therefore  of  his  interest 
in  the  work,  since  that  interest  was  confined  solely  to  its  possible 
practical  outcome. 

Bacon,  unlike  More,  was  not  concerned  with  social  justice.  He, 
too,  was  a Humanist,  but  by  the  beginning  6£  the  seventeenth 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  6} 

century  Humanism  had  run  cold:  the  difference  between  V tophi 
and  Nw  Atlantis  is  not  so  much  a difference  of  content  as  a differ- 
ence of  purpose,  a shift  of  interest  and  a lowering  of  temperature. 
The  earlier  Humanists  believed  in  reason  and  in  the  possibility  of 
the  attainment  of  happiness  by  the  unfettered  exercise  of  reason. 
Bacon  and  his  contemporaries,  while  not  denying  the  power  of 
reason  had  gradually  shifted  the  weight  of  emphasis  away  from 
reason  to  experiment.  As  Bacon  wrote: 

“Our  method  is  continually  to  dwell  among  things  soberly. . . 
to  establish  for  ever  a true  and  legitimate  union  between  the 
experimental  and  rational  faculty.'’ 

And  elsewhere: 

“For  the  wit  and  mitid  of  man,  if  it  woik  upon  matter,  which 
is  the  contemplation  of  the  creatures  of  God,  uorLcl  It  according 
to  the  stuff  and  is  limited  thereby;  but  if  it  work  upon  itself,  as 
the  spider  worketh  its  web,  then  it  is  endless,  ahd  brings  forth 
indeed  cobwebs  of  learning,  admirable  for  the  fineness  of  the 
thread  and  work,  but  of  no  substance  or  profit.’’ 

Bacon  stood  at  the  beginning  of  the  first  period  of  maUrialism, 
in  which  it  was  confidently  beli^^ved  that  the  whole  universe^ 
from  the  solar  system  to  the  mind  of  man,  was  a \ ast  and  complex 
machine  and  could  be  mastered  absolutely  by  a sulficknt  under- 
standing of  the  laws  of  mechanics.  He  saw  il  as  his  task  to  use  his 
prestige  and  his  incomparable  control  over  language  to  urge 
upon  his  contemporaries  the  undertaking  of  this  ijnal  assault  upon 
the  mysteries  of  nature.  As  Bas  Willey  sa\s  in  his  admirable 
book,  The  Scvintccnth  Cvhtuyy  LacLgronmL 

“Bacon’s  role  was  to  indicate  with  fine  magniloquence  the 
path  by  which  alone  ‘science’  c<u]kl  advance.  This  he  did,  while 
other  men,  such  as  Galileo,  Harvey  or  Gdbert,  in  whom  he  took 
comparatively  little  interest,  W'.  re  achieving  great  discoveries 
on  the  principles  which  he  taught.  Bacon’s  great  service  to 
‘science’  was  that  he  gave  it  an  incomparable  advertisement.” 

The  information  which  wx  are  given  about  the  social  and 
economic  and  political  organisation  of  Bensalem,  the  utopian 
island  o*f  New  Atlantis,  is  naturally,  therefore,  meagre  and  indirect, 
since  Bacon  only  intends  the  fiction  to  provide  an  interesting 


64  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

background  for  the  pamphlet.  But  one  cannot  but  be  struck  with 
the  remarkable  decline  from  the  standpoint  reached  in  Utopia^ 
and,  since  Bacon  had  obviously  read  More’s  book,  this  may  be 
taken  as  an  implied  criticism  in  the  points  where  they  differ. 
Bcnsalem  is  a monarchy  of  an  orthodox  type,  with  the  inevitable 
fixed  constitution  handed  down  from  the  founder-king  Salomona. 
It  has  private  property  and  classes,  as  wc  have  to  infer  from  a 
passage  which  says  that  on  certain  ceremonial  occasions 

‘‘if  any  of  the  family  be  distressed  or  decayed,  order  is  taken 
for  their  relief,  and  competent  means  to  live.” 

That  is  to  say,  that  while  the  necessities  of  the  poor  are  provided 
for,  this  is  done  as  a charity  and  not  as  of  right,  and  the  need  for 
such  charity  appears  normally  to  arise.  Correspondingly  there  are 
marked  social  gradations  and  inequalities,  and  the  officials  and 
leading  citizens  are  distinguished  by  magnificent  clothes  and 
lavish  display  and  have  numbers  of  personal  servants.  > There  is 
a strongly  patriarchal  family,  quite  unmarked  by  any  trace  of  the 
communism  with  which  More  tempered  family  life,  and  great 
power  is  enjoyed  by  the  heads  of  these  families  and  by  the  old 
generally. 

Chance  voyagers,  like  the  narrator  of  the  story,  were  welcomed 
in  Bensalem  and  received  hospitably,  but  intercourse  with  foreign 
lands  was  discouraged  because  King  Salomona, 

“recalling  into  his  memory  the  happy  and  flourishing  estate 
wherein  his  land  then  was,  so  as  it  might  be  a thousand  ways 
altered  to  the  worse,  but  scarce  any  one  way  to  the  better; 
thought  nothing  wanted  to  his  noble  and  heroical  intentions, 
but  only,  as  far  as  human  foresight  might  reach,  to  give  per- 
petuity to  that  which  was  in  his  time  so  happily  established; 
therefore  ...  he  did  ordain  the  interdicts  and  prohibitions 
which  we  have  touching  the  entrance  of  strangers.” 

At  the  same  time,  as  was  fitting  for  a people  given  up  to  the 
search  for  knowledge,  every  effort  was  made  to  discover  and 
import  all  that  was  known  in  other  lands,  and  vdtb  this  object 

1 We  are  reminded  that  Aubrey  sa>s  of  Bacon:  ‘None  of  his  servants  durst 
appeare  before  him  without  Spanish  leather  boots;  for  he  would  smelle  the  neates 
leather,  which  ofiendea  him.”  ^ 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  65 

secret  missions  were  sent  out  at  regular  intervals  to  visit  all 
civilised  lands  and  bring  back  reports. 

To  Salomona,  also,  was  credited  the  cstablishn-ient  of  Salomon’s 
(or  Solomon’s)  House,  whose  ‘fellows’  were  the  object  almost  of 
veneration  among  the  Bensalemites.  Here  we  come  to  Bacon’s 
real  point:  like  Bensalcm  itself,  exists  only  for  the 

sake  of  it.  And  in  nothing  more  than  in  his  ideas  about  educa- 
tion does  Bac-f)n  differ  from  More.  For  More,  as  we  have  seen 
education  was  a social  and  co-operative  pursuit,  with  its  object 
the  increasing  of  the  happiness  and  the  enrichment  of  the  person- 
alities of  the  whole  people:  for  Bacon  it  was  the  affair  of  a body  of 
specialists,  lavishly  endowed  by  the  state  and  carrying  on  their 
work  in  complete  isolation  from  the  masses  (we  are  told  that  the 
visit  of  one  of  the  fathers  of  Salomon’s  House  to  the  capital  city 
was  the  first  for  a d()?:en  years).  Its  object  was  not  happiness  but 
power: 

“The  end  of  our  foundation  is  the  knowledge  of  causes  and 
secret  motions  of  things  and  the  enlarging  of  ^‘he  bounds  of 
human  empire,  to  the  effecting  of  all  things  possible.” 

There  is  a kind  of  holy  simplicity  in  this  unbounded  belief  in 
man’s  powers  that  is  the  mf)st  attractive  side  of  Bacon  and  which 
makes  him  the  truly  re})rcsentativc  man  of  his  time,  but  this  same 
simplicity  limits  his  objectives  to  the  quantitative  and  the  empirical . 
There  is  little  in  Bacon  of  the  desire  to  pass  beyond  catalogue  to 
synthesis,  and  he  was  a superb  gencraliscr  with  a deep  distrust  of 
generalisation. 

For  this  reason  the  method'  of  Salomon’s  House  were  purely 
experimental,  and  to  the  caialogifing  of  experiments  Bacon 
devotes  the  ten  happiest  pages  of  Nni^  Atlantis^  describing  a great 
variety  of  metallurgical,  biological,  astrotiomical  and  chemical 
marvels,  as  well  as  the  practical  application  of  science  to  the 
making  of  new  substances  and  fabrics,  to  medicine  and  even  to 
engineering: 

imitate  also  the  flights  of  birds:  for  wc  have  some  degree 
of  flying  in  the  air:  we  have  ships  and  boats  for  going  under 
water,*. . .'We  have  divers  curious  clocks  and  other  like  motions 
of  return,  and  some  perpetual  motions.  We  imitate  also  the 
motions  of  living  things  by  images  of  men,  beasts,  birds, 
fishes  and  serpents.” 


66 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


Bacon  hoped  to  interest  King  James,  who  prided  himself  upon 
his  virtuosity  and  delighted  to  be  called  the  modern  Solomon,  in 
his  scheme,  and,  no  doubt,  dreamed  that  the  foundation  of  such  a 
college  of  science  might  lead  to  his  return  to  public  life  and 
favour.  In  this  he  was  disappointed,  for  James  had  little  interest 
in  science  for  its  own  sake  and  already  the  political  struggle  was 
curtailing  the  resources  of  the  crown.  ^ It  was  not  till  1645, 
under  the  rule  of  the  Long  Parhament,  that  Bacon’s  scheme 
assumed  a modest  practical  form  as  the  “College  of  Philosophy”. 
Its  founders,  Samuel  HartUb,  author  ot  the  utopian  essay  Macaria, 
and  the  Czech  scholar  Comenius,  both  admitted  that  their  scheme 
was  inspired  by  Nw  Atlantis.  Similarly,  when  the  College  of 
Philosophy  developed  into  the  Royal  Society  in  1662,  Sprat, 
Boyle,  Glanville  and  others  declared  that  this  was  only  the  carry- 
ing into  effect  of  Bacon’s  outline  of  Salomon’s  House.  J^ater  still,  it 
was  among  the  main  influences  which  determined  the  form  to  be 
taken  by  the  work  of  the  French  Encyclopedists.  Diderot,  in  the 
Prospectus,  stated  specifically: 

“If  wc  have  come  at  it  successfully,  we  shall  owe  most  to  the 
Chancellor  Bacon,  who  threw  out  the  plan  of  an  universal 
dictionary  of  sciences  and  arts,  at  a time  when,  so  to  say, 
neither  arts  nor  sciences  existed.  That  extraordinary  genius, 
when  it  was  impossible  to  write  a historj  of  what  was  known, 
wrote  one  of  what  it  was  necessary  to  learn.” 

Nen^  Atlantis y therefore,  belongs  to  the  history  of  science  as  much 
as  to  the  history  of  Utopia  or  to  the  history  of  politics.  Neverthe- 
less, the  development  of  science  and  industrial  technique  was  an 
essential  part  of  the  advance  of  the  bourgcf>isic,  and,  as  I have  said. 
Bacon’s  preoccupation  with  applied  science  as  a form  of  pomr 
links  him  with  the  extremely  political  utopian  writers  of  the 
Commonwealth  with  whom  the  next  section  will  have  to  deal. 


2.  The  R£al  and  the  Ideal  Commonwealth 

The  revolution  in  England  was  rich  in  heroic  achievement:  it 
was  rich  also  in  heroic  illusion.  This  is  a necessary  .feature  of  all 
bourgeois  revolutions,  since  their  promises  arc  far  removed  from 

1 James  is  said  to  have  remarked,  upon  the  publication  cif  the  Not>um  Organum 
that  ‘it  is  hke  the  peace  of  God — it  passes  all  understanding*. 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  67 

their  results,  and  their  real  meaning  is  often  obscured  even  from 
those  most  actively  engaged  in  them.  They  promise  freedom  for 
all,  and,  more  often  than  not,  the  promises  are  sincerely  made, 
but  the  freedom  they  actually  secure  is  always  the  freedom  for 
a particular  class  to  pursue  its  own  ends,  while  for  the  masses, 
whose  support  is  enlisted  and  whose  hopes  are  aroused,  the  ad- 
vantages arc  indirect  and  often  dubious,  and  always  fall  far  short 
of  what  was  anticipated.  In  seventeenth-century  England  as  in 
eighteenth-century  France  the  wild  expectations  of  universal 
brotherhood  and  prosperity  were  cruelly  disappointed  and  the 
defeat  and  consequent  widespread  disillusionment  of  the  un- 
privileged led  in  the  end  to  a partial  restoration  of  the  old  regime, 
to  a compromise  between  the  different  sections  of  the  exploiting 
classes  which  left  many  questions  unsolved  but  left  also  the  road 
clear  for  future  advances. 

In  England  especially  the  religious  forms  in  which  the  revolu- 
tion found  expression  caused  the  dreams  of  the  niasses  to  take  the 
most  extravagant  shapes.  The  wJiole  period  is'  one  of  fantastic 
speculation,  human  power  and  divine  power  ran  side  by  side  and 
become  at  times  almost  interchangeable.  Men  felt  everywhere  that 
they  were  doing  God’s  work  and  God  theirs.  Tlic  overthrow  of 
the  royal  jiower  was  not  merely  e political  change  but  the  usher- 
ing in  of  the  rule  of  the  Saints  and  the  sign  of  the  coming  Millenn- 
ium in  which  Christ  would  appear  in  person  to  put  the  seal  of  his 
approval  upon  the  work  his  people  were  doing.  For  a time  the 
Fifth  Monarchy  Men  became  a powerful  political  force  and  the 
Kingdom  of  God  on  earth  seemed  a practical  possibility. 

As  early  as  1641,  with  the  calling  of  the  Long  Parliament,  such 
visions  were  abroad.  Hanserd  Imollvs  wrote  in  that  year: 

‘This  is  the  wc^rk  that  is  in  hand.  As  soon  as  ever  this  is  done, 
that  Antichrist  is  down,  Babylon  fallen,  then  comes  in  Jesus 
Christ  reigning  gloriously;  then  c'omcs  in  this  Hallelujah^  the 
l^ord  God  Omnipotent  reigneth, ...  It  is  the  work  of  the  day  to  cry 
down  Babylon,  that  it  may  f ti  more  and  more;  and  it  is  the 
work  of  the  day  to  give  God  no  rest  till  he  sets  up  Jerusalem 
as  the  praise  of  the  whole  world.  - . - God  uses  the  common 
pc*.)plo  and  the  multitude  to  proclaim  that  the  Lord  God 
Omnipotent  rc^gjiCth.  As  when  Christ  came  at  first  the  poor 
received  the  Gospel — not  many  noble,  not  many  rich,  but  the 
poor — so  in  the  reformation  of  religion,  after  Antichrist  began 


68 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


to  be  discovered,  it  was  the  common  people  that  first  came  to 
look  after  Christ.”  i 

Nor  was  it  only  the  poor,  nameless  and  ignorant  enthusiasts,  who 
expected  this  Millenium.  Their  expectation  was  shared  by  many  of 
the  finest  minds  of  the  time.  Milton,  in  the  same  year,  was 
declaring  his  belief  that  England  would  be 

“found  the  soberest,  wisest  and  most  Christian  people  at  that 
day,  when  Thou,  the  eternal  ai-d  shortly  expected  King, 
shall  open  the  clouds  to  judge  the  several  Kingdoms  of  the 
world,  and  distributing  national  honours  and  rewards  to 
religious  and  just  commonwealths,  shalt  put  an  end  to  all 
earthly  tyrannies,  proclaiming  Thy  universal  and  mild 
monarchy  through  heaven  and  earth.” 

We  might  almost  say  that  the  Eden  of  Panidise  host  was 
Milton’s  Utopia,  a Utopia  which  contains  many  of  the  traditional 
features  of  the  Earthly  Paradise‘s  described  in  Chapter  T,  and 
which,  ill  the  first  enthusiasm  of  the  revolution  he  had  hoped 
to  see  realised  on  earth.  Later,  after  the  slow  fading  of  hopes 
under  the  Commonwealth  and  the  final  blow  of  the  Restoration, 
he  transferred  his  Eden  to  the  distant  past  and  the  distant  future, 
but,  “because  he  was  a true  Poet  and  of  the  Devil’s  party  without 
knowing  it”,  there  was  a time  when  he  had  indeed  thought  that 
men  might  cat  of  the  forbidden  fruit  and  become  as  gods,  know- 
ing  good  and  evil.  For  Milton  the  tragedy  of  the  Fall  was  not  that 
man  was  wrong  to  desire  this  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  but 
that  the  promises  of  the  serpent  were  false  promises  (like  the 

1 It  is  interesting  lo  sec  liow  Jerusalem  and  bahvj«>n  develop  fiDni  mainly  rclij»i<>us 
intti  social  and  p(>litiral  s^inb(jls.  KoIktI  Button  i^lhe  Anatomy  of  Melancholy yGiiy 
l^art  ITT,  Seelitm  i)  quotes  August inc:  “'fVo  cities  make  two  knes,  Jenisdlcm  and 
Babylon,  the  love  of  Cjod  the  one,  the  love  (jf  the  world  the  other;  of  these  two  cities 
we  all  arc  c]ti/<‘ns,  as,  by  examination  of  ourselves,  we  may  soon  find,  and  of  which.” 

An  army  hymn  of  the  Civil  War  {x^riod  has  the  lines: 

“The  Lord  begins  to  honour  us, 

'J’hc  Saints  are  marching  on; 

Ihe  sword  is  sharp,  the  arrows  swift 
T<j  destroy  Babylon.” 

Blake  carries  the  process  much  further,  for  which  sec  p.  124,  below. 

2 It  may  be  argued  that  it  is  rather  the  case  that  Cokaygne  contains  piany  of  the 
features  of  the  Biblical  Eden.  Perhaps  this  is  then  the  case:  the  important  thing  is. 
that  Eden  and  Cokaygne  both  contain  a number  of  traditional  features  common  to 
a number  of  mythologies  in  various  parts  of  the  wiuld.  And  the  thing  that  has  to  be 
explained  is  not  really  the  diffusion  of  these  myths  but  their  abiding  popularity  in  the 
minds  of  the  people. 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  69 

promises  of  the  bourgeois  revolution  itself)  and  that  this  know- 
ledge and  the  power  it  could  give  were  proved  in  the  event  to  be 
something  to  which  man  was  not  able  to  attain.  The  paradise 
which  Milton  lost,  then,  was  the  early  promise  of  the  revolution. 

If  Milton  was  the  supreme  religious  Utopian  of  the  English 
revolution,  his  Utopia  was  so  concealed  that  he  himself  was 
probably  unaware  of  it  as  such.  There  arc,  however,  religious 
Utopias  of  this.period  of  a more  conventional  pattern  though  on 
an  incomparably  lower  level.  One  of  these  is  Samuel  Gott’s 
Nova  Solyma^  already  referred  to.  This  was  published  in  Latin  in 
1648  and  republished  in  1649.  It  does  not  seem  to  have  attracted 
much  attention  and  was  forg(>ttcn  till  it  was  discovered  and 
translated  in  1902  by  the  Rev.  \X  alter  Begley,  who  attributed  it  to 
Milton  for  no  better  reason  tlian  that  he  could  think  of  no  one 
else  capable  of  creating  so  sublime  a masterpiece.  In  fjci,  as  I have 
said,  it  is  a book  of  a dullness  and  inci->titudc  scarcely  to  be 
imagined. 

The  framework  of  fictj<./n  is  of  the  usual  type.  Nova  Solyma  is 
discovered  and  visited  by  two  young  gentlemen  from  Cambridge, 
Eugenius  and  Poliian,  who  are  entertained  and  instructed  in  the 
customary  hospitable  manner.  Its  inhabitants,  without  exception, 
exhibit  all  the  worst  chaructcristtcs  (jf  the  Purttan  of  hostile  tradi- 
tion, narrow-minded  and  iiystcrical  piety,  sjnugness  and  intol- 
erance. A good  deal  of  the  book  is  taken  up  with  descriptions  of 
their  educational  arrangements,  which  have  neither  the  Humanist 
breadth  of  More  nor  he  passionate  scientific  interest  of  Bacon. 
The  book  also  discusses,  to  quote  its  editor, 

“the  master  passion  of  love,  which  is  considered  philosophic- 
ally, Platonically  and  rcalisticty  ...  the  Romance  has  also  much 
to  say  on  Religk)n,  on  Conversion,  Salvation,  the  Beginning 
and  End  of  the  World,  the  Fatherhood  of  Ciod,  the  Brother- 
hood of  Man,  of  Almsgiving,  of  Self-Control,  of  Angels  and 
the  Fall  of  Man,  and  Man’s  Eternal  Pate.” 

It  is  perhaps  hardly  to  be  expected  that  in  addition  to  all  this 
Samuel  Gott  should  have  much  to  say  about  the  economic  and 
political  organisation  of  the  Nova  Solymnians,  and,  in  fact, 
these  questions  arc  virtually  ignored.  Wc  are  allowed  to  deduce 
that  there  are  classes  and  private  property,  wealth  and  poverty 
side  by  side,  very  much  as  they  were  to  be  found  in  the  non- 
utopian  lands  of  the  time. 


70  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

INom  Solynm  is,  however,  by  no  means  the  most  extreme 
example  of  what  the  Puritan  writer  could  do  when  he  really  let 
himself  go.  For  this  we  must  turn  to  John  Sadler's  Olbia:  The  New 
Island  'Lately  Discovered^  first  published  in  1660  and  never,  so  far  as 
I can  discover,  republished.  The  title  page  promises  a description 
of  ‘‘Religion  and  Rites  of  Worship;  Laws,  Customs  and  Govern- 
ment; Character  and  Lan^age",  and  the  book  opens  well  enough 
with  a pilgrim  whose  ship  is  driven  out  of  its  coiirse  by  a storm. 
On  page  3,  however,  he  is  wrecked  on  a rocky  islet  and  rescued 
by  a hermit  whom  he  barely  thanks  before  starting  to  complain 
that  he  is  “the  wretched  object  of  the  Creator’s  wrath”.  The  hermit 
then  consoles  and  exhorts  him  through  380  pages.  Much  of  his 
discourse  is  devoted  to  an  exposition  of  numerical  mysticism,  of 
which  the  last  paragraph  of  the  book  is  a fair  sample: 

“And  they  lie  dead  (as  we  saw  before)  for  3 days  and  a half; 
or  84  hours:  vdiich  end  in  hour  324;  the  Morning  Sacrifice^  of 
the  14th  Day:  whose  Evening  Minha  beginnctli  in  hour  333; 
which  added  to  1352  (the  other  two  Moeds^  or  twice  666;) 
comes  just  to  1666;  the  Evening  before  the  Feast  of  Tahermicle^^ 
when  also.  The  Tabernacle  of  God  shall  he  with  mein  if  we  have 
reckoned  right.  'VC  hicK  may  yet  be  more  cleared  by  our  Tables 
and  Qiaracters,  if  God  so  please.” 

The  'book  breaks  off,  obviously  unfinished,  but  whether 
Sadler  ever  did  complete  it  and  describe  the  Laws,  Customs  and 
Government  of  the  Olbians  it  is  impossible  to  say.  It  is  conceiv- 
able, though  unlikely,  that  a utopian  masterpiece  lies  awaiting 
discovery  in  some  old  library  or  cupboard.  Probably  the  political 
atmosphere  of  1660  was  unfavourable  for  the  publication  of 
millennial  speculations.  I’he  real  interest  of  this  curious  book  is 
as  an  example  of  the  wild  extravagance  of  such  speculations  at  the 
close  of  the  Commonwealth  period  and  its  illustration  of  the  way 
in  which  such  speculations  tended  to  be  linked  up  with  the 
utopian  form.  The  decadence  of  these  speculations  parallels 
exactly  the  political  disintegration  and  bankruptcy  of  the  left-wing 
political  parties  and  movements  in  the  last  years  of  the  Republic. 

Besides  divine  power  working  through  men  there  was  also 
human  power  working  directly  upon  events,  and  it  would  be 
as  great  a mistake  to  imagine  that  all  the  men  of  the  English 
Revolution  were  religious  fanatics  as  to  underestimate  the  part 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  7I 

played  by  religious  fanaticism  in  this  period.  Along  with  the  Fifth 
Monarchy  Men  and  the  millenary  enthusiasts,  and  sometimes 
co-operating  with  them,  were  sober  and  secular-minded  political 
theorists,  men  like  Walwyn,  Petty,  ireton  and  Vane,  and,  among 
the  utopian  writers,  Samuel  I lartUb  and  James  Harrington.  Their 
Utopias,  Macaria  and  Oceana^  are  entirely  matter  of  fact  and 
political,  and  illustrate  some  of  the  fundamental  tendencies  of  e 
period. 

In  both  of  them  the  element  of  fiction  has  been  cut  down  to  the 
barest  framework.  Where  More,  and  to  a much  smaller  extent 
Bacon,  were  interested  not  only  in  the  formal  structure  of  their 
imaginary  commonwealths  but  also  in  the  qualtiy  of  the  living  of 
their  peoples,  Hartlib  and  Harrington  only  used  the  fictional  form 
as  a convenient  peg  upon  which  to  hang  uiodel  constitutions. 
There  are  no  people  in  these  Utopias,  only  institutions.  Marana 
and  Oceana  belong,  as  it  were,  half-wav  between  Utopia  and  such 
essays  in  cc^nstitution-making  as  Agreement  the  People^  and 
like  The  Agreement^  were  seriously  advanced  by  their  authors  as 
practical  schemes  which  could  piofitably  and  immcdiaiely  be  put 
into  operation  in  England.  This  absence  f)f  the  element  of  fiction 
is,  perhaps,  the  main  reason  why  these  Utopias  are  now  so  seldom 
read,  since,  once  the  circumstances  to  which  they  were  a response 
have  ceased  to  exist,  it  must  be  confessed  that  they  are  somewhat 
devoid  of  life  and  colour. 

It  is  only  to  be  expected,  of  course,  that  at  a time  of  revolution, 
when  great  changes  in  the  air,  the  Utopias  wt>uld  be  more 
practical  and  less  imaginative  than  at  times  when  their  authors 
saw  little  hope  of  their  realisat*  m.  And  the  English  Revolution, 
like  all  bourgeois  revolutions,  v as  specially  marked  by  the  endless 
elaboration  of  paper  constitutions,  some  of  which  were  actually 
adopted  in  practice.  The  reason  for  this  elaborate  constitution- 
making  in  the  bourgeois  revolution,  which  was  also  marked  in 
America  and  France,  is  its  double  and  ambiguous  character.  The 
bourgeois  revolution  is  always  the  work  of  a combination  of  class 
forces,  the  bourgeoisie  drawing  into  the  struggle,  under  the 
banner  of  freedom  from  privilege,  big  sections  of  the  lower 
classes.  As  a result,  when  once  the  first  stage  has  been  passed,  a 
further  struggle  tends  to  develop  between  those  sections  which 
want  to  limit  the  revolution  to  the  ending  of  feudal  privilege  and 
royal  absolutism  and  those  determined  to  proceed  to  destroy  or 
limit  the  power  *of  the  men  of  property,  without  which,  as  is 


7^ 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


quickly  discovered,  the  democracy  for  which  the  masses  supposed 
themselves  to  have  been  fighting  is  unattainable. 

The  result  is  an  attempt  to  strike  a balance  and  stabilise  the 
actual  situation  in  a written  and  irrevocable  constitution.  Usually 
the  constitution-making  is  done  by  the  men  of  property,  who 
see  in  it  a barrier  against  further  democratic  inroads,  though 
sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of  The  Agreement  of  the  People^  it  is  the 
left  wing  who  want  to  establish  themselves  at  ji  point  which 
they  have  reached  but  which  it  appears  likely  to  be  difficult  to 
hold  without  such  support.  In  the  main  however,  it  is  the  right 
and  centre  parties  who  seek  to  establish  an  absolute  and  un- 
challenged law^  preventing  further  changes  from  either  dire  ction. 
And  in  practice,  as  in  England,  a number  of  such  balances  are 
arrived  at  temporarily  until  one  is  reached  which  really  reflects  the 
actual  relation  of  class  Agrees. 

The  key  question  was  that  of  property.  The  bourgeoisie 
fought  to  establish  the  absolute  right  to  private  property  against 
royal  claims  and  the  less  clear-cut  but  more  restrictive  conceptions 
of  feudalism:  in  the  first  period  of  the  revolution,  therefore,  the 
claim  of  the  bourgeoisie  to  an  absolute  right  to  enjoy  and  use  their 
property  was  objectively  progressive.  In  the  second  stage,  when 
the  lower  middle  classes  were  pressing  for  a fuller  democracy  to 
complete  the  revolution,  the  rights  of  property  became  a barrier 
behind  which  the  rich  entrenched  themselves  to  resist  the 
demands  of  the  l^evellers.  In  the  Putney  Debates,  quoted  at  the 
head  of  this  Chapter,  Ireton,  the  most  conscious  theoretician  of 
the  men  of  property  argued: 

‘‘The  objection  docs  not  lie  in  that,  the  making  of  the 
representatives  more  equal,  but  in  introducing  of  man  into  an 
equality  (tf  interest  in  diis  government  who  have  no  properly 
in  this  kingdom.  . . . You  may  have  such  men  chosen,  or  at 
least  a major  part  of  them,  as  have  no  local  or  permanent 
interest.  Why  may  not  these  men  vote  against  all  property^” 

Against  this  argument  Rainborough  replied  with  a clear 
statement  of  human  rights: 

“I  do  very  well  remember  that  the  gentleman  iti  the  window 
said  that  if  it  were  so,  that  there  were  no  propriety  to  be  had, 
because  five  parts  of  the  nation,  the  poor  people,  arc  now 
pxcluded  and  would  then  come  in.  So  one  on  the  other  side 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  73 

said  that  if  it  were  otherwise,  then  rich  men  only  shall  be 
chosen.  Then,  I say,  the  one  part  shall  make  hewers  of  wood 
and  drawers  of  water  of  the  other  five,  and  so  the  greatest  part 
of  the  nation  be  enslaved.” 

And  Sexby  similarly: 

“There  are  many  thousand  of  us  soldiers  that  have  ventured 
our  lives;  we  jjiavc  had  little  propriety  in  the  kingdom  as  to  our 
estates,  yet  we  have  had  a birthiight.  But  it  seems  now,  except 
a man  hath  a fixed  estate  in  this  kingdom  he  hath  no  right  in 
this  kingdom.  I wonder  wc  were  so  much  deceived.” 

It  w'as  this  internal  struggle  which  led  to  the  degeneration  of 
the  Commonwealth  and  made  the  Rcsto^-ation  possible.  It  was  to 
prevent  such  conflicts  and  to  give  the  republic  a firm  and  perma- 
nent basis  that  ilarringti^n  wrote  Oieana^  and  it  u to  such  argu- 
ments and  passions  as  these  that  vx  must  look  for  the  background 
of  that  least  passionate  of  books  Before  discussing  it,  however, 
something  must  be  said  of  the  earlier  and  less  iinpt>rtant  Macaria, 
A Descr/ptiofi  of  the  Kiniidom  oj  Macaria  was  oublished  in 

l^ondon  in  1641,^  when  the  Long  Parliament  had  met  and  had 
already  won  its  first  imp(Utant  \ictorics.  It  is  to  that  Parliament 
that  it  is  dedicated: 

“Whereas  T am  confident,  that  this  honourable  court  will  lay 
the  corncr-stotie  of  the  world’s  happiness,  before  the  first  recess 
thereof,  I have  advc  ircvl  to  cast  in  my  widr)w’s  mite  into  the 
treasury;  not  as  an  instructor  01  councclk>r  to  this  honourable 
assembly,  but  having  delivered  my  concejRion  in  a fiction,  as  a 
more  mannerly  way;  having  i.s  my  j'>attern  Sir  Thomas  More 
and  Sir  Francis  B^con,  once  Lord  C,hancellor  of  Imgland.” 

It  is  in  the  form  of  a dialogue  between  a Scholar  and  a Traveller, 
and  the  latter  begins: 

“In  a kingdom  called  Macaria,  the  King  and  the  governors 
do  live  in  great  honour  and  r.'  ncs,  and  the  people  do  live  in 
great  plenty,  prosperity,  peace  and  happiness. 

"^Scholar:  That  seemeth  to  me  impossible.  . . 

Macaria,  as  is  suitable  for  a Utopia  of  the  dawning  bourgeois 
revolution,  is  organised  on  state  capitalist  rather  than  communist 

^ Macaria  means  ‘blpsscd’  and  according  to  More  was  a country  not  far  from 
Utopia- 


74  the  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

lines.  “All  traffick  is  lawful  which  may  enrich  the  kingdom’^ 
but  all  is  controlled  by  a great  Council,  under  which  are  Councils 
of  Husbandry,  Fishing,  Trade  by  Land,  Trade  by  Sea  and  New 
Plantations.  The  last  of  these  organised  state-aided  emigration. 

What  is  quite  new  in  Utopian  literature  is  the  method  by  which 
the  institutions  of  Macaria  are  to  be  introduced  into  England.  For 
the  first  time,  this  is  not  the  w^ork  of  a benevolent  Prince  but  is 
the  result  of  convincing  the  people  of  the  be^icfits  of  such  a 
change.  To  bring  this  about  the  Scholar  promises  that  in  his  next 
sermon  he 

“will  make  it  manifest  that  those  that  are  against  this  honour- 
able design,  are  first  enemies  of  God  and  goodness;  secondly 
enemies  to  the  Commonwealth;  thirdly  enemies  to  themselves 
and  their  posterity. 

*^Traveller:  Why  should  not  all  the  inhabitants  of  England 
join  with  one  consent  to  make  this  country  to  be  like  Mac- 

aria.  . . . 

Scholar:  None  but  fools  or  madmen  will  be  against  it.” 

So  Utopia  begins  its  second  phase,  that  of  belief  in  the  power  of 
persuasion  and  enlightened  self-interest.  The  time  is  still  far 
distant  when  the  real  nature  of  the  problem  of  class  power  will  be 
clearly  understood. 

Macaria  belongs  to  the  first  stage  of  the  Revolution,  the  stage 
of  easy  confidence  and  hope.  Oceana^  which  was  not  published 
till  1656,  though  much  of  it  had  probably  been  written  consider- 
ably earlier,  belongs  to  the  closing  years  of  doubt  and  exhaustion. 
Already  a whole  series  of  experimental  constitutions  had  been 
tried  and  had  failed.  Harrington  believed  that  he  knew  why,  and 
hoped,  not  perhaps  very  confidently,  that  his  plan  would  be 
ado])ted  in  time  to  save  the  republic. 

Elarrington  was  a characteristic  but  isolated  figure.  Born  in 
1 61 1,  he  was  a member  of  a powerful  landowning  family.  As  a 
young  man  he  showed  a great  interest  in  political  problems,  but, 
instead  of  taking  part  in  the  struggles  of  the  time,  he  travelled 
abroad,  studying  the  institutions  of  foreign  states,  especially 
those  of  the  great  aristocratic  merchant  republics  of  Elolland  and 
Venice.  He  had  also  a considerable  knowledge  of  Greek  and 
Roman  history,  and,  as  a result,  became  a convinced  republican 
at  a time  when  even  the  most  advanced  of  the  practical  politicians 
had  no  thought  of  doing  more  than  bringing*  the  royal  power 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  75 

under  the  control  of  Parliament.  Yet,  with  this  strong,  academic 
republicanism,  he  had  an  equally  strong  personal  attachment  to 
King  Charles,  and,  when  Charles  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Army,  he 
became  Groom  of  the  Bedchamber,  a post  that  required  someone 
who  possessed  the  confidence  of  both  parties.  John  Aubrey,  his 
close  friend,  writes  that 

‘‘King  Charles  loved  his  company;  only  he  could  not  endure 
to  heare  of  a Commonwealth.’’ 

In  the  actual  struggle  of  the  Civil  War  he  took  no  part  and  he 
deeply  deplored  the  king’s  execution.  Once  the  Commonwealth 
bad  been  established,  however,  lus  republican  ccmvictifjns  made 
him  desire  its  success,  and  it  was  to  Oomwell  that  his  Oceana  was 
dedicated. 

In  spite  of  this  he  had  some  difliculty  in  obtaining  permission 
to  publish  it.  Olphacus  Mcgalator,  wbi>  stands  for  (iromwell  in 
Oceana^  is  made  to  resign  his  olfice  at  tlie  height  of  his  power, 
setting  up  a free  republic  (ions.^quently  ihe  book  remained  lor 
some  time  in  the  hands  of  the  censijr,  and  Toland,  who  edited 
Harrington’s  works  with  a shor+  biography,  records  Cromwell’s 
characteristic  commem: 

“The  Gentleman  had  like  to  trepan  him  out  of  his  power,  but 
what  he  got  by  the  sword  he  would  not  quit  for  a Uttle  paper 
shot:  adding  in  his  usual  cant,  that  he  approv’d  the  Govern- 
ment by  a single  pen  i little  as  any  of  ’em,  but  he  was  forced 
to  take  upon  him  the  office  of  a High  Constable,  to  preserve  the 
Peace  amemg  the  several  Part\  ^ in  the  Nation,  since  he  saw  that 
being  left  to  themselves  they  Nvould  never  agree  to  any  certain 
form  of  Government.” 

In  this  there  is  no  reason  to  think  Cromwell  insincere.  He  under- 
stood to  the  full  the  weaknesses  of  the  O^mmonwealth,  if  not 
their  rof^t  cause,  and,  in  his  last  vears,  w^ote  and  spoke  as  a man 
without  real  hope. 

And,  indeed,  the  class  contradiction  at  the  root  of  the  Common- 
wealth was  so  profound  that  no  artificial  constitution,  however 
subtly  contrived,  could  have  prevented  its  fall.  Nevertheless, 
Harrington’s  .scheme  was  based  on  the  appreciation  of  a great 
truth,  whose  clear  enunciation  gives  him  an  important  place  in 
the  development  of  the  conception  of  historical  materialism.  The 
character  of  a society  will  depend,  he  believed,  upon  the 


76  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

distribution  of  property  among  the  classes  within  it.  By  property 
he  meant  landed  property,  but  in  the  seventeenth  century  land  was 
still  the  most  important  form  of  property,  and  he  was  ready  to 
admit  that  in  certain  states,  such  as  Holland  and  Venice,  where 
this  was  not  the  position,  his  generalisation  could  bear  a wider 
application.  He  crystallises  it  in  the  dictum: 

“As  is  the  proportion  or  balance  of  Dominion  or  Property  in 
Land,  such  is  the  nature  of  the  Empire.  he  continues, 
“one  man  be  the  sole  Landlord  of  a territory,  or  overbalance 
the  People  . . . the  Empire  is  absolute  Monarchy. 

“If  the  Few,  or  a nobility  with  the  Clergy  be  landlords  or 
overbalance  the  People  . . . the  Empire  is  mix’d  Monarchy,  as 
that  of  Spain,  P(jland  and  late  of  Oceana  [England). 

“If  the  whole  people  be  Landlords,  or  hold  the  Lands  so 
divided  among  them  that  no  one  Man  or  number  of  Men, 
within  the  compass  of  the  Few  or  Aristocracy,  overbalance 
them,  the  Empire  (without  the  interposition  of  Force)  is  a 
Commonwealth.  ’ ’ 

The  foundation  stone  of  Oceana,  therefore,  was  an  Agrarian 
Law,  dividing  the  land,  not  indeed  among  the  whole  people,  since 
Harrington  was  by  no  means  a believer  in  complete  democracy, 
but  among  a large  number.  This  was  done  by  a decree  that  no-one 
might  hold  land  valued  at  more  than  £2,000.  This,  he  argued, 
would  ensure  that  the  number  of  landowners  would  never  be  less 
than  5,000  and  would  in  practice  be  far  more,  since  it  was  un- 
likely that  all  woidd  have  the  maximum  holding.  In  order  to 
break  up  estates  still  further  he  proposed  to  abolish  primo- 
geniture, so  that  all  estates  were  to  be  divided  equally  between 
the  sons  of  the  owner.  Such  an  Agrarian  Law  would  give  the 
Commonwealth  a firm  basis,  in  much  the  same  way  as  the  Refor- 
mation settlement  in  England  was  assured  by  the  number  of 
people  who  had  an  interest  in  retaining  the  lands  taken  from  the 
church.  It  is  worth  noting  in  this  connection  the  firm  basis 
that  the  French  Revolution  did  secure  later  by  its  wide  division  of 
the  land  among  the  peasantry.  Political  power  in  Oceana  was  not 
confined  to  the  landowners  but  was  so  distributed  that  they  had  a 
decisive  influence.  What  was  being  proposed  in  effect  was  that 
England  should  become  a country  of  small  landlords  and  solid 
freeholders. 

Once  the  foundations  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Oceana  had 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  77 

been  secured  by  this  division  of  the  land,  Megalator  was  able  to 
introduce  Harrington’s  other  proposals  for  the  reform  of  the 
machinery  of  Government.  These  were  the  secret  ballot,  both  in 
the  election  of  representatives  and  in  the  Parliament  itself,  indirect 
election,  a system  of  rotation  by  which  one  third  of  the  members 
of  Parliament  and  of  all  elected  bodies  resigned  each  year  and  so 
the  w'hole  membership  was  changed  every  three  years,  and  a two 
chamber  Parlian^ent  in  which  the  upper  and  smaller  house,  with 
a higher  property  qualilication,  debated  but  did  not  vote,  while 
the  lower  house  voted  but  did  not  debate.  Harrington  seems  to 
have  regarded  this  lower  house  as  a kind  of  indirect  referendum. 

None  of  these  proposals  was  absolutely  new.  Harrington’s 
method  was  historical  rather  than  empirical  and  he  adopted 
devices  he  knew  to  ha\c  been  used  in  the  ancient  world  and  in 
modern  states,  especially  in  Venire,  for  which  he  had  always 
die  greatest  admiration.  W hat  was  new  v^as  their  combination  and 
the  proposal  to  apply  them  to  the  government  of  a great  nation 
state  instead  of  to  the  dtics  and  close  corporations  to  which  they 
had  liitherto  been  confined.  W'h.it  he  aimed  at  was  a democracy 
that  would  avoid  corruption  and  buicaucrac)  on  the  one  side  and, 
on  the  other,  the  irresponsibility  of  the  common  people,  in  whom, 
like  most  gendemanly  political  thinkeis,  he  had  little  confidence. 

Under  the  Commonwealth  corrujition  had  by  no  means  been 
destroyed.  Winstanlcy,  in  a vivid  passage  in  his  Imw  of  freedom 
PI  a Platform ^ had  remarked: 

water  stands  long  ii  (orruj>ts.  . . . Some  olficers  of  the 
Commonwealth  have  grown  so  mossy  for  want  of  moving  that 
they  will  hardly  speak  to  an  o'd  acquaintance.’’’^ 

Harrington  proposed  to  avoid  this  by  allowing  the  greatest  possible 
number  of  people  to  participate  in  the  actual  work  of  government. 
By  the  indirect  ballot  and  the  property  qualification,  as  well  as  by 
his  double  chamber  system,  he  hoped  to  avoid  the  “excesses”  of 
democracy. 

Much  of  Oceana  is  taken  up  with  speeches  in  the  Senate  and  with 

1 Quoted  from  H.  F.  R.  Smith’s  Warrington  and  hts  Oceana.  Smith  points  out  that 
Harrington  must  have  been  acuuaintcd  with  the  wiitings  and  activities  of  Win- 
stanlcv  and  the  Diggers,  wh('  also  made  a redi vision  of  the  land  essential  to  the 
establishment  o£ a frue  Commonwealth.  The  Diggers,  who  were  mainly  proletarian, 
proposed  a n'uch  more  radical  and  communist  re-division  than  did  Harrington. 
Winstanlcy’s  I.umf  of  freedom,  though  it  is  direct  propaganda  and  not  in  the  form  of 
fiction,  might  well  be  reckoned  among  the  Utopias  of  the  seventeenth  century. 


78  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

a variety  of  detailed  projects  that  are  now  of  minor  interest.  Some 
of  these  are  fantastic,  as  the,  probably  not  very  serious,  proposal 
to  plant  Panopea  (Ireland)  with  the  Jews,  to  whomit could  become 
a new  national  home.  Others,  like  the  scheme  for  a sort  of  People’s 
Army,  were  quite  practical  in  the  conditions  then  existing.  Few 
Utopias  have  attracted  more  immediate  attention.  A gigantic 
pamphlet  literature,  for  and  against,  sprang  up  around  Oceana^ 
while  in  the  last  years  of  the  Commonwealth^  a definite  Party 
developed,  whose  members  were  drawn  chiefly  from  the  more 
secular  wing  of  the  Republicans.  Among  Harrington’s  followers 
or  close  associates  can  be  reckoned  Henry  Nevile,  Marten, 
Algernon  Sidney  and  John  Wildman,  formerly  a leader  of  the 
Levellers.  In  the  Parliament  that  met  in  January,  1659,  there  were 
ten  or  a dozen  avowed  Harringtonians  who  lost  no  opportunity 
of  advancing  his  constitutional  proposals. 

In  the  same  year  Harrington  founded  the  Rota  Club,  perhaps 
the  first  purely  political  debating  society,  whose  business  was 
conducted  strictly  according  to  Oceanic  principles.  It  was  a 
remarkable  platform  for  completely  free  discussion  and  many  of 
the  most  distinguished  men  of  the  day  took  part  in  its  proceedings 
cither  as  members  or  visitors.  With  the  Restoration  the  Rota,  like 
all  other  forms  of  republican  activity,  was  proscribed,  and 
Harrington,  with  Wildman  and  others,  was  imprisoned.  He  was 
afterwards  released,  his  health  broken  by  close  confinement,  and, 
Toland  says,  by  overdoses  of  Guaiacum,  prescribed  to  him  as  a 
cure  for  the  scurvy.  In  his  last  years  he  was  troubled  with  a 

"‘deep  conceit  and  fancy  that  his  perspiration  turned  into  flies 

and  sometimes  into  bees,” 

but  apart  from  this  obsession  he  was  c|uitc  rational  and  lived 
quietly  in  the  country  till  his  death  in  1677. 

With  the  Restoration  the  political  influence  of  Oceana  came  to  an 
end  in  England,  but  in  the  American  and  French  Revolutions, 
when  attention  was  turned  once  more  to  the  shaping  of  con- 
stitutions, its  influence  again  became  important.  John  Adams  and 
James  Gtis,  among  others  in  America,  were  enthusiastic  admirers 
of  Harrington’s  work,  and  the  constitution  of  Massachusetts 
embodied  so  many  of  his  ideas  that  it  was  actually  formally  pro- 
posed to  change  the  name  of  the  State  to  Oceana*.  The  influence 
of  Harrington’s  ideas  can  also  be  seen  in  the  original  constitutions 
of  Carolina,  Pennsylvania  and  New  Jersey,  and  it  was  probably  as 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  79 

a disciple  of  Harrington  that  Adams  insisted  so  strongly  upon  a 
two-chamber  Congress  for  the  Union. 

In  France  the  Abbe  Sicyes  included  in  the  constitution  which 
he  drafted,  and  which  was  adopted  in  1800,  some  of  Harrington’s 
most  important  proposals,  notably  indirect  election  and  the 
division  of  the  legislature  into  two  chambers,  one  of  which 
debated  and  the  other  made  decisions.  The  scheme  was  a failui 
because  the  secogd  chamber  became  a quite  formal  body  ratifying 
decisions  which  in  fact  had  been  reached  elsewhere,  and  because, 
as  always,  the  inner  logic  of  the  bourgeois  revolution  was  too 
powerful  to  be  arrested  bv  any  constitutional  expedients,  however 
carefully  worked  out.  Nevertheless,  tlic  fact  that  in  both  the 
American  and  the  French  Revolutions  Harrington’s  Utopia  uas 
the  one  to  which  the  acutest  political  theorists  turned,  is  a proof 
of  its  close  relation  to  the  actual  problems  of  a revolutionat)  age. 

3.  \J tophi  and  ili  Reaction 

It  might  have  been  expected  that  the  Restoration  peri  xl  would 
have  little  or  nothing  to  show  in  the  way  of  Utopiaij  literature: 
that  this  is  not  the  case  is  a strong  proof  of  the  popularity  and 
unfailing  appeal  that  books  of  this  kind  have  had.  The  Restt)ration 
Utopias  arc  of  low  qualit}  and  contribute  little  of  pc^sitive  value 
to  the  development  of  the  Utopian  conception.  They  are  of 
considerable  interest,  however,  because  of  the  closeness  with 
which  they  reflect  the  ch  ngf  in  the  regime  and  the  new  political 
atmosphere.  In  this  connection  it  is  highly  significant  that  two  ot 
the  four  books  to  be  considered  h^'rc  are  continuations  of  Bacon’s 
unfinished  Nev'  A.tlaniis,  since  ol  all  the  major  Utopias  this  is  the 
least  radical  and  politically  advanced. 

The  first  of  these  continuations.  New  A.tlattfis.  Begun  hy  the 
Lord  Verulam,  Viscount  St  Albans:  and  Continued  hj  R.  H.  Esquire. 
Wherein  is  set  forth  a Piat/orni  of  MonarchuJ  Governmenty  was  pub- 
lished in  London  in  September,  1 . ' , in  the  first  flush  of  royalist 
enthusiasm.  It  is  dedicated,  with  unconscious  irony  to 

“My  most  Sacred  Sovereign  Charles  II.  If  in  the  ensuing 
character  of*  a puissant  and  most  accomplished  Monarch  all 
your  Majesfie’s  Princely  Vertues  are  not  fully  portraid  (for 
I am  sensible  the  picture  may  seem  drawn  with  too  much 
shadow)  1 shall  humbly  beg  your  gracious  pardon;  this  being 


8o 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


only  the  first  draught  of  that  immense  beauty  a more  deliberate 
liand  perhaps  could  have  delineated  in  more  lively  colours.” 

Like  Qiarles,  Salomona  was  pleased  to  regard  himself  as  the 
father  of  his  people  and  was  accustomed  to  call  them  his  children, 
but  wc  are  told  that: 

“His  chastity  was  singular,  he  never  being  seen  to  converse 
with  any  woman  but  his  Princely  Spouse  or  some  of  his  nearest 
relations.” 

He  was  equally  noted  for  his  abstemiousness,  his  usual  drink  being 
a little  sugared  water.  He  did,  however,  take  pleasure  in  watching 
horse-racing,  which  in  Bensalem  was  managed  without  jockeys! 

Many  of  the  incidental  details  are  plagiarised  from  More,  but 
all  More’s  specifically  progressive  features  are  omitted.  Most  of 
the  narrative  is  in  the  form  of  a dialc'guc  between  the  imaginary 
narrator  and  a Bcnsalemite  magivStrate  or  Alcaldorem.  The 
author  obviously  does  not  understand  the  real  nature  of  the 
Restoration  settlement,  but  naively  imagines  that  lingland  had 
now  returned  to  the  state  of  affairs  which  existed  before  the 
Revolution.  The  Alcaldorem,  asked  how  Bensalem  can  be 
governed  without  a Parliament,  replies: 

“The  people  of  Bensalem  have  it  as  a received  maxim  among 
them  that  their  Salomona  neither  can  nor  will  do  them  any 
injury,  they  being  the  members  of  the  body  whereof  lie  is  the 
head,” 

and  adds  that  in  England  it  is  to  be  doubted  if  Parliaments  will 
long  continue,  at  any  rate  in  tlicir  present  power.  He  goes  on  to 
expound  the  theoretical  basis  of  the  constitution: 

“We  conceive  Monarchy  the  nearest  to  perfection,  that  is,  to 
God,  the  wise  Governor  ot  the  Universe,  and  therefore  best.” 

The  nobility  depend  on  the  Monarch  for  their  advancement  and 
the  people  are  loyal,  peaceful  and  virtuous. 

As  befits  a monarchy,  the  government  and  social  structure 
throughout  is  entirely  patriarchal,  and  many  of  their  features 
look  back  to  the  Middle  Ages.  Every  man  mu§t  hTave  a trade 
which  he  is  forbidden  to  change,  magistrates  have  the  power 
to  regulate  industry  and  the  quality  of  all  goods  produced,  to 
keep  the  public  granaries  stocked  and  to  enclose  commons  and 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  8l 

wastes.  Landlords  are  obliged  to  let  land  on  long  leases  and  at 
fixed  and  reasonable  rents.  The  advance  of  technology  and  science 
in  the  seventeenth  century  is  reflected,  however,  in  the  obligation 
of  tenants  to  plant  half  their  pastures  with  lucerne  or  one  of  the 
other  artificial  grass  crops  then  coming  into  fashion  in  lingland, 
and  in  the  great  variety  of  manures  used.  In  gcncraf  though,  this 
Utopia  is  a simple-minded  attempt  to  go  back,  not  only  to  tiic 
period  before  th^  revolution,  but  beyond  that  to  wipe  away  many 
of  the  ccomnnic  and  social  changes  whieli  led  up  to  it. 

The  second  continuafion  of  New  was  the  work  of 

Joseph  Cjlanvill,  a much  more  considerable  writer  and  public 
figure  than  the  anonymous  R.II.  Glanvill  was  closely  associated 
with  the  Cambridge  Platotiists,  the  list  ofFshoc»t  in  Lngland  of 
renaissance  Humanism.  The  Cambridge  Platonists,  Henry  More, 
Cudworth,  John  Smith  and  cabers,  were  a u ell- defined  school 
who  attempted  to  tutn  the  tables  both  on  the  mechanical  material- 
ists and  the  enthusiasts  of  the  Puritan  sects  by  deVnonstrating  the 
reasonableness  of  rebgion,  and  cspcciaPy  of  the  \nglican  Church, 
In  this  way  they  met  w'ilh  considerable  success  in  an  age  which 
was  attaching  more  and  more  importance  to  rea^t^n  but  which 
still  wished  to  reconcile  teason  with  revealed  religion.  Cdanvill 
himself  was  both  an  Anglican  clergyman  and  a bePow  of  ihc 
Royal  Society.  In  his  own  daj  he  was  accused  oi  atheism  on 
account  of  his  early  book.  The  Vanity  of  DognnUisingy  and  later  has 
been  regarded  as  a credulous  fanatic  for  liis  Sudiu  ismus  Triumpbatus 
in  which  he  tried  to  piw\c  the  reality  of  witchcraft.  Neither  of 
these  accusations  is  really  just,  for  what  he  w^as  actually  trying  to 
do  was  to  link  the  cxj^crimenta*  materialism  of  Bacon  with  the 
rational  mysticism  of  the  Cambi-idge  PlaN>nhts. 

In  his  continuation  of  New  A.tlantis  he  dcsctibcs  Bensalem  in 
the  throes  of  revolution,  although  this  revc/lution  is  looked  at 
almost  entirely  from  the  standpoint  of  the  theological  struggle. 
He  secs  the  revolution,  therefore,  as  a conflict  between  right 
reason  and  irrational  fanaticisn  When  the  Bcnsalemites  had 
deposed  and  murdered  their  ‘Pious  Prince^  the  way  was  opened 
for  every  form  of  extravagance  and  unreason.  The  Ataxites,  the 
Puritan  Party 

“all  cried  up  their  own  class  as  the  only  Saints^  and  People 
of  God:  all  vilified  Keason  as  Carnal^  and  Incompetent,  and 
an  enemy  to  the  things  of  the  Spirit.  . . . All  talk’d  of  their 
extraordinary  Communion  with  God,  their  special  Experience^ 


82 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


Illuminations  and  Discoveries;  and  accordingly  all  demeaned 
themselves  with  much  saweiness  and  irreverence  towards 
God,  and  contempt  of  those  that  were  not  of  the  same  phan- 
tastical  Fashion.” 

Against  them  Glanvill  set  up  a rival  school,  drawn  from  the 
Cambridge  Platonists,  who  restore  to  religion  reason,  moderation, 
simplicity  and  dignity-  in  short,  bring  about  an  Anglican 
revival:  ' 

‘"They  told  the  Ataxites  that  though  they  talk’d  much  of 
Closing  with  Christy  Getting  in  to  Christy  Kolling  upon  Christy  and 
having  an  interest  in  Christ;  and  made  silly  people  believe  there 
was  something  of  Divine  Mystery  or  extraordinary  spirituality 
under  the  sound  of  these  words;  that  yet,  in  good  earnest, 
cither  they  understood  not  what  they  said  and  mean’d  nothing  at 
all  by  them;  or  else  the  sense  oi  them  was  but  believing  Christ's 
DoctrineSy  obeying  his  lawSy  and  depending  upon  his  promises;  plain 
and  known  things.” 

As  a result  of  their  efforts  the  Ataxite  Party  was  discredited 
and  overthrown  and  Bcnsalem  returned  to  reasonable  religion  and 
monarchical  government.  (jlanvilPs  interests  were  not  really 
political,  but,  so  far  as  I can  discover,  his  is  certainly  much  the 
earliest  Utopia  in  which  an  actual  revolutionary  struggle  is  des- 
cribed. The  Revolution  had  brought  with  it  the  understanding 
that  societies  are  constantly  developing  and  being  transformed 
through  man’s  conscious  efforts.  For  tliis  reason,  in  spite  of  his 
very  slight  interest  in  politics  as  such,  Glanvill’s  is  an  important 
contribution  to  the  history  of  the  English  Uti>pia.  It  should  be 
added  that  the  work,  as  published  in  1676,  is  itself  incom]')lcte. 
It  is  a part  only  of  a much  longer  book  in  continuation  of  New 
Atlantis  which  is  known  to  have  existed  in  manuscript  but 
which  has  now  been  lost. 

The  third  of  our  Restoration  Utopias  has,  strictly  speaking, 
possibly  no  place  in  this  b(>ok,  since  it  was  probably  the  work  of 
a French  writer,  Denis  Vairasse  d’Allais.  But  it  was  actually 
published  in  an  linglish  translation  in  London  (1675-9)  ^^o  years 
before  the  French  edition  appeared.  In  this  English  version  it  is 
attributed  to  an  imaginary  Captain  Siden.  It  illustrates  both  the 
set  of  opinions  we  have  noted  already  in  the  two  continuations  of 
New  Atlantis  and  some  other  interests  characteristic  of  the  period 
botli  in  England  and  France. 


REVOLUTION  AND  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  83 

There  is  the  same  marked  decline  in  political  interest,  and  in  its 
place  there  is  a lively  curiosity  about  the  doings  and  manners  of 
a strange  people,  an  interest  that  can  almost  be  described  as 
anthropological  and  which  is  clearly  the  cflFect  of  the  active 
exploration  of  the  remoter  parts  of  the  earth  and  their  opening  to' 
European  intercourse  and  commerce. 

The  History  of  the  Sevan tes  or  Sevarawbi  tells  how  after  the 
Flood  the  KartWy  Paradise  was  transported  to  a region  South- 
East  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  peopled  WTth  a new  creation, 
resembling  men  but  not  identical  with  them.  It  has  many  of  the 
characteristics  of  the  Earthly  Paradise  of  Cokaygne  described  in 
Chapter  I,  such  as  limitless  abundance  and  a complete  absence  of 
poverty.  On  the  other  hand,  Severambe,  being  a seventeenth- 
century  Utopia,  has  a society  based  on  reason  and  natural  law,  and, 
inevitably,  is  ruled  by  a hereditary,  despotic  and  quasi-divine 
king.  In  this  respect,  and  like  the  other  Utc^pias  of  tl*c  time,  its 
organisation  has  a close  likeness  to  that  outlined  by  Hobbes  in 
his  iMnathan^  though  it  is  not  possible  to^^ay  whether  this  was 
due  to  a direct  influence  or  to  the  gcticral  effect  of  the  absolutism 
existing  in  France  and  the  struggle  of  Charles  li  to  re-establish 
absolutism  in  England. 

There  is  no  indication  that  the  writer  was  very  iatcrc*‘tedinsuch 
political  questions,  once  he  had  paid  his  tribute  of  flattery  ti>  the 
prevailing  orthodoxy.  This  done,  he  proceeds  to  deal  in  detail  and 
real  animation  with  all  sorts  of  sexual  and  miscellaneous  customs 
of  Severambe,  and  with  the  various  marvels  to  be  ffmnd  there. 
There  was,  for  example,  a special  kind  of  temporary  marriage  for 
travellers: 

“Because  many  among  us  arc  sometimes  (obliged  to  travel 
and  leave  their  wives  at  home,  we  keep  in  all  cities  a number  of 
women  slaves  appointed  to  their  use,  so  that  wt  do  not  only 
give  to  every  traveller  Meat,  Drink  and  J-,odging,  but  also  a 
Woman  to  lye  with  as  openly  and  lawfully  as  if  she  were  his 
wife.” 

This  VI  as  doubtless  a reflection  of  some  Eastern  modes  of  hospit- 
ality, news  of  which  was  becoming  current  in  Europe. 

The  treatment  of  crime  also  receives  some  attention,  and 
among  criminals  the  Severambi  seem  to  have  reckoned  lawyers. 
This  is  partly  the  normal  hostile  reaction  of  simple  people  to 
the  law,  but  the  passage  suggests  that  it  may  also  be  the  result  of 


84  the  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

the  considerable  part  that  lawyers  in  England  had  played  during 
the  Civil  War: 

“On  both  sides  were  the  lawyers’  Cells  or  little  Closets. 
These  are  a certain  number  of  men,  who  are  locked  up  as 
Prisoners  in  their  place,  and  not  suffered  to  range  up  and  down 
the  city,  for  fear  they  should  infect  the  rest  of  men  with  their 
idle  notions  and  Quirks.  They  are  all  kept,  the  Judges  only 
excepted,  as  our  mal  and  craftie  men  in  Europe,  arc  confined 
to  Bedlams,  and  as  the  wild  I'easts  to  their  dens;  for  by  this 
policy  they  preserve  the  city  in  quiet.” 

In  spite  of  the  stress  placed  upon  reason  in  Severambe,  this 
Utopia  shows  none  of  Bacon’s  enthusiasm  for  scient'e.  Its  place  is 
taken  by  a great  variety  of  magical  talismans,  by  which  wonders 
arc  worked,  especially  the  unnatural  changing  and  distortion  of 
the  shapes  of  animals,  in  which  the  people  appear  to  have  taken 
a peculiar  delight. 

It  is  indeed,  the  political  and  cultural  innocence  of  the  author  of 
this  Utopia  which  gives  it  its  main  interest,  showing  how  much 
the  prevailing  political  atmosphere  could  affect  w^hat  is  really  only 
meant  to  be  read  as  a wonder  tale.  As  a wemder  tale  it  has  close 
connections  wdth  the  type  of  Utopian  romance  which  became 
more  widely  current  in  the  ntxt  century.  It  is  a forerunner  of 
the  JRousseauesque  glorification  of  the  simj-)le  aborigine  and  of 
Didcr(;t’s  Supplement  to  Boupimwi lie's  ‘1  ^oyage"  in  iTance,  and,  in 
Imgland,  ot  the  work  of  such  different  though  related  writers  as 
Swift,  Uefoe,  Beringtijn  and  Paltock. 

A similar  innocence  marks  a tale  that  deserves  at  least  a mention 
here  both  for  its  authorship  and  its  remarkable  anticipation  of 
'Robinson  Crusoe.  Tbe  Isle  of  Pines  (1668)  was  the  work  of  Henry 
Nevile,  v/it,  republican  and  closest  associate  of  Harrington. 
Nevile  w’as  widely  credited  with  a share  in  the  production  of 
Oceana^  though  nothing  could  less  resemble  that  ponderous  book 
than  his  owm  acknowledged  work.  Ncvilc’s  hero,  George  Pine, 
like  Crusoe,  w^as  wrecked  (^n  an  island  which, 

“being  a large  island,  and  disjoined  and  out  of  sight  of  any  other 
land,  was  w^holly  uninhabited  by  any  people,  neither  was  there 
any  hurtful  beast  to  annoy  us.  But  on  the  contrary,  tnc  country 
was  so  very  pleasant,  being  always  clothed  in  green,  and  full  of 
pleasant  fruits,  and  variety  of  birds,  ever  warm,  and  never 
colder  than  in  England  in  September;  so  that  this  place,  had  it 


REVOLUTION  ^MD  COUNTER-REVOLUTION  85 

the  culture  that  skilful  people  might  bestow  on  it,  would 
prove  a paradise.” 

Ill  this  paradise  Pine,  like  Crusoe,  had  the  blessing  of  securing  all 
the  stores  of  the  wrecked  ship,  and,  unlike  Crusoe,  of  the  company 
of  four  women  saved  from  the  wreck  with  him.  Such  use  did  he 
make  of  all  this  that  he  and  they  lived  in  the  greatest  ease,  pros- 
perity and  happiness,  and,  when  eighty  years  old,  and  after 
fifty  nine  years  *upon  the  island,  he  was  able  to  count  his  descen- 
ants  to  the  number  of  one  +housand  seven  hundred  and  eighty- 
nine.  It  is  the  secular  and  a-moral  character  of  tliis  little  utopia  that 
is  most  striking.  Nevilc  like  Harringlf)n  and  Marten,  was  an 
outstanding  representative  of  the  rationalist  element  in  the 
Pmglish  Revolution:  in  the  Parliament  of  1659,  in  which  he  was 
the  leader  of  the  Harrington  Ian  group,  an  attempt  was  made  to 
unseat  him  on  the  ground  ol  his  alleged  atheism.  And  on  their 
island  Pine  and  his  woracti-lolk  live  according  to  thtir  natuul 
inclinations  w’ilhout  the  slightest  regard  to  moral  laws  or  any 
external  prohibitioiug  with  results  that  appe.ir  satisfactoiy  to  all 
concerned.  It  is  the  triumph  of  natural  human  goodness  left  to 
assert  itself.  11  the  setting  here  anticipates  that  of  (itusoe’s  island 
the  spirit  is  rather  that  (jf  Diderot  and  the  Preiich  1 hilightcnmcnt. 


CHAPTER  IV 


RhASOM  IN  DESPAIR 

Fades  the  Republic;  faint  as  Roland’s  horn, 

Her  Tiumpcts  taunt  us  with  a sacred  scoin^  . . 

Then  silence  fell  and  Mr  Long  was  born. 

CHEST1.RTON. 

I.  1/je  End  of  Coknygm 

WHEN  Church  ill’s  In^opers  triumphed  at  Sedgemoor  they 
rode  down  tlic  last  defenders  of  Cokaygne,  the  Utopia  of  all 
jolly  fellows,  of  the  proud,  independent  man,  neither  exploiting 
nor  exploited,  eating  and  drinking  of  his  own  abundance.  For 
this  was  (me  half  of  the  Levellers’  dream,  and,  I think,  more  than 
half  of  the  Ixvcllers’  strength.  On  the  one  side  they  were  modern, 
rational,  civilised  in  a measure  above  that  of  their  time.  On  the 
other,  they  were  medieval,  traditional,  appealing  to  the  deep-lying 
desires  and  perpctuiilly  thwarted  hopes  of  the  people.  Their 
power  lay  in  the  synthesis  of  the  past  and  the  future:  their  weak- 
ness and  the  inevitability  of  their  defeat  lay  in  its  incompleteness 
and  in  the  gap  which  existed  between  it  and  the  objective  reality 
of  historical  development  - a gap  far  deeper  and  wider  than  that 
Bussex  Rhine  on  Sedgemoor  in  which  Monmouth’s  army  met  its 
defeat. 

But  if  it  was  a peasant  army  and  a peasant  Utopia  vrhich  went 
down,  the  ultimate  victory  did  not  rest  with  the  Catholic-feudal 
counter-revolution.  This  was  not  merely  another  of  the  long 
series  of  peasant  insurrections  crushed  by  feudal  power;  it  was  the 
final  defeat  of  the  plebeian  element  in  the  Bourgeois  Revolution, 
and,  with  that  defeat,  the  necessity  for  the  upper  bourgeoisie  to 
compromise  with  the  remnants  of  feudal  society  also  came  to  an 
end.  Churchill  might  indeed  ride  to  Sedgemoor  as  James  Stuart’s 
man:  he  rode  home  already  beginning  to  think  that  William 
Nassau  might  pay  a better  price  for  his  services.  The  ultimate 
victors  at  Sedgemoor  were  the  Whigs,  the  men  who  three 
years  later  organised  the  so-called  “Glorious”  Revolution  of 
1688. 

The  events  of  1688,  wliilc  not  a revolution  in  the  true  sense. 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR 


87 

consolidated  the  victory  won  by  the  bourgeoisie  forty  years 
earlier.  Advances  far  beyond  what  the  bourgeoisie  either  needed 
or  desired,  alternating  with  partial  and  temporary  successes  of 
reaction,  had  filled  the  intervening  period.  Now  a compromise, 
corresponding^  roughly  with  the  objective  balance  of  class  forces, 
had  been  reacned — the  time  had  come  for  the  victors  to  gather 
the  fruits.  So  1688  established  the  power  of  the  great  merchants 
and  financiers,  allied  with  the  Whig  nobility  who  ha  ! trans- 
formed themselves  into  capitalist  landowners.  This  combination, 
irresistibly  strong,  made  politics  a closed  shop  and  created  the 
apparatus  needed  for  the  rapid  accumulation  of  capital  leading  to 
the  agricultural  and  industrial  revolution  of  the  latter  part  c^f 
the  eighteenth  century. 

The  great  epoch  of  the  seventeenth  century  Revolution  had 
been  an  age  of  enthusiasm  and  wild  hopes,  of  bold  speculation^ 
and  the  clash  of  ideas.  All  this  now  ended:  hen /ism,  self-sacrificc, 
disinterestedness,  passed  so  clean  out  of  fashion  that  the  very 
words  acquired  a slight  flav(>ur  of  impropriety.  Lvery  thing  and 
every  man  now  had  its  known  price  ai»d  honour  became  a 
commodity  like  all  the  others  Instead  of  Laud  we  find  Sachever- 
cll,  instead  of  Cromwell,  Walpole,  w’hile  the  nearest  the  eighteenth 
century  could  come  to  Lilbutne  was  John  Wilkes.  '"Silence  fell, 
and  Mr.  Long  was  born.’’  Men  felt  that  the  wars  had  brought 
nothing  about,  but  tliis  was  far  from  the  trutli:  what  had  been 
created  was  the  condition  for  a rapid  expansion  of  trade  and 
industry,  the  establishment  wilh  the  Bank  of  Lngland  and  the 
National  Debt  c/^  a 'modern’  financial  system,  a long  senes  of 
colonial  wars  in  which  English  capitalism  established  its  riglit  to 
exploit  vast  new  territory  s.  In  the  eighteenth  century  the  bour- 
geoisie, which  had  emerged  out  of  and  in  contradiction  to  feudal 
society,  and  had  fought  for  and  won  political  power,  transformed 
itself  into  modern  capitalism  and,  breaking  the  last  links  wliich 
had  bound  it  to  the  old  feudal  order,  established  itself  and  its 
specific  mode  of  production  as  a part  of  the  recognised  order  of 
things. 

And  of  all  this  a young  man  who  had  fought  at  Sedgemoor  on 
the  losing  side,  and,  three  years  later,  had  been  on  the  winning 
side  with  William  of  Orange,  was  the  first  prophet.  Daniel  Defoe, 
in  his  pamphlet  An  Appeal  to  Honour  and  Justice  (1715),  defined 
both  his  own  standpoint  and  that  of  the  new  order  with  singular 
exactness:  • 


88 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


*‘I  was  for  my  first  entering  into  the  knowledge  of  Public 
Matters,  and  have  ever  been  to  this  day,  a sincere  lover  of  the 
Constitution  of  my  country,  zealous  for  Liberty  and  the  Protest- 
ant Interest;  but  a constant  follower  of  Moderate  Principles, 
a vigorous  opposer  of  Hot  Measures  of  all  Parties.  I never 
once  changed  my  opinions,  my  principles,  or  my  Party:  and  let 
what  will  be  said  of  changing  sides,  this  I maintain,  that  I have 
never  once  deviated  from  the  Revolution  Principles,  nor  from 
the  doctrine  of  IJberty  and  Property  on  wliich  they  were 
founded.” 

For  Defoe,  as  for  Churchill,  'Liberty  and  Property’,  or,  more 
accurately,  ‘Liberty  for  Property’,  came  to  be  identified  with  the 
House  of  Orange  and  the  Protestant  Succession,  and,  indeed,  as 
things  were,  no  real  alternative  existed  after  1685.  h\>r  Churchill, 
to  whom  changes  of  allegiance  came  as  easily  as  they  have  to 
other  members  of  his  familj%  no  difficulty  was  presented — but 
Defoe?  Defoe  who  has  at  least  the  hom)ur  of  having  fought  in  the 
last  battle  of  Fnglish  libcrtj?  Did  he  never  feel  that  his  new  prin- 
ciples were  a betrayal  of  wliat  Ins  comrades  had  fought  and  died 
for  under  tlie  sea-green  banner  that  Monmouth  had  inherited  from 
the  Levellers? 

If  he  did,  he  certainlv  never  said  so  except  perhaps  indirectly. 
When  Robinson  Ousoe  csca])cd  from  Sallee  he  took  with  him  a 
negro  slave  boy,  Xury,  whom  he  promised  ‘to  make  a great  man’, 
and  for  whom  he  professed  a lively  affection.  When  at  the  end  c^f 
their  voyage  they  were  picked  up  by  a Portugese  ship,  the 
captain 

“offered  me  also  sixty  pieces  of  eight  more  for  my  boy  Xury, 
which  I was  loth  to  take,  not  but  what  1 was  not  willing 
to  let  the  captain  have  him,  but  I was  very  loth  to  sell  the  poor 
boy’s  liberty,  who  had  assisted  me  so  faitlifully  in  procuring 
my  own.  However,  when  I let  him  know  my  reason,  he 
owned  it  to  be  just,  and  offered  me  this  medium,  that  he  would-^ 
give  the  boy  an  obligation  to  set  him  free  in  ten  years,  if  he 
turned  Christian,  and  Xury  saying  he  was  willing  to  go  with 
him,  I let  the  captain  have  him.” 

The  only  real  regret  Crusoe  ever  expressed  over  this  transaction 
was  when  he  found  that  he  could  profitably  have  made  use  of 
Xury’s  labour  himself.  Is  it  fanciful  to  see  in  this  negro  slave  boy 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR 


89 

Defoe^s  old  comrades  of  the  Left,  and  in  the  captain,  perhaps, 
William  of  Orange?  Possibly,  though  Defoe  expressly  invites  us 
to  interpret  Kobinson  Crusoe  in  just  this  kind  of  way: 

‘‘The  adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe  are  one  whole  scene  of 
real  life  of  eight-and-twenty  years,  spent  in  the  most  wandering 
desolate  and  afflicting  circumstances  that  ever  a man  went 
through,  and  in  which  I lived  a life  of  w(^ndcr,  in  continual 
storms  ...  in  worse  slavery  than  Turkish,  escaped  by  as 
exquisite  management  as  in  the  story  of  Xury  and  the  bc»at  of 
Sallee,  been  taken  up  at  sea  in  distress  ...  in  a word  there  is 
not  a circumstance  in  the  imaginary  story  but  has  its  just  allusion 
to  a real  story.’’ 

\X"hcther  Defoe  had  any  intention  of  drawing  it,  the  parallel  is 
certainly  there,  and  the  whole  episode  i*  entirely  in  keeping  with 
the  times:  that  is  why  Defoe  is  the  characteristic  writer  and 
Kobhmn  Crusoe  the  charactcristi"*  Utopia  of  the  early  eighteenth 
century,  just  as  Cliurchill  is  its  characteiistic  public  figure.  It 
was  this  horrifying  combination  of  the  objectively  progressive 
with  the  morally  squalid  in  the  Revolutif>n  of  1688  which  bewil- 
dered so  many  of  the  best  men  of  the  day:  it  w^as  this  perhaps  which 
turned  the  incorruptible  Ferguson  into  a Jacobite,  it  was  this 
which  created  an  agimising  and  insoluble  pniblcni  for  those  who 
had  more  old-fashioned  ideas  of  loyalty  than  Churchill  and  greater 
intellectual  subtlety  tlian  Defoe. 

Among  the  former  was  an  Irish  soldier,  as  great  perhaps  if  less 
fortunate  than  Cuarchill,  who  was  alsi>  willi  the  victorious  army 
at  Sedgemoor.  Among  the  latter  a young  man  who  in  1685  was 
an  unsatisfactory  student  .t  what  he  regarded  as  a most  unsatis- 
factory university — Trinity  College,  Dublin.  If  Churchill  and 
Defoe  arc  typical  figures  on  the  one  side,  Sarsfield  and  Swift  can 
stand  f('r  tlic  best  on  the  other,  and  it  is  perhaps  significant  that 
we  have  to  go  to  Ireland  to  find  them.  In  Ihigland  the  ‘Revo- 
lution’ stood,  in  however  debased  a wav,  for  the  Good  Old  Cause: 
Ireland  could  offer  no  Go^hI  Old  Cause,  since,  whoever  won,  the 
Irish  people  were  certain  to  be  enslaved  and  exploited.  Sarsfield 
was  no  politician  but  a simple  and  honourable  soldier.  He  took 
what  seemed  to  him  the  inevitable  course  under  the  circumstances, 
and,  after  his  famous  defence  of  Limerick,  migrated  to  Europe 
with  many  of  his  men  and  was  killed  at  Landen  in  1693.  Swift’s 
fate  was  more  complex  and  will  detain  us  longer,  since  he  was  to 


90  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

write  the  second  and  the  greatest  utopian  work  of  the  age — 
Gulliver  s Travels, 

Swift  came  from  a family  traditionally  Royalist;  liis  grandfather 
had  been  ruined  for  the  support  he  gave  to  Charles  I in  the  Civil 
War.  His  father  and  uncles  came  to  Ireland  to  try  to  restore  the 
family  fortune.  So  Swift  was  veritably  born  into  contradiction: 
neither  English  nor  Irish  he  seemed  at  times  to  hate  equally  the 
lands  of  his  origin  and  his  adoption:  often  he  insists  that  he  is  an 
English  gentleman  who  happened  to  be  born  in  Ireland,  but  it 
was  in  Ireland  that  he  became  a national  figure,  respected  and 
loved  as  few  have  been  before  or  after  him. 

Yet  his  career  as  an  Irish  patriot  was  the  result  of  little  more 
than  an  accident.  When  he  left  the  University  it  was  to  England 
that  he  turned  as  a matter  of  course  to  make  his  name  in  politics 
and  letters.  While  acting  as  personal  secretary  to  Sir  William 
Temple,  that  admirable  nonentity,  he  published  his  first  brilliant 
satires.  The  'Tale  of  a Tub  and  The  hafile  of  I he  Book  Later  he  took 
orders,  rather  unwillingly,  and  divided  his  time  between  Jiis  Irish 
parish  of  Laracor  and  the  polite  literary  world  of  London. 
Presently  he  made  himself  the  indispensable  pamphleteer  of  the 
Tories.  His  savage  wit,  his  brilliance  in  pok  mic,  his  arrogance  and 
the  overwhelming  force  of  his  personality  made  him,  for  some 
years,  an  outstanding  figure  in  English  politics. 

Yet,  it  may  be  said,  what  was  he  after  all  but  a Tory  hack  writer? 
I think  that  Swift’s  Toryism  needs  a few  words  of  explanation. 
Swift  accepted,  albeit  regretfully,  the  'Revolution’  of  1688.  Yet 
he  could  not  but  observe  that  it  had  strengthened  a new  sort  of 
oppression  and  a new  breed  of  exploiter. 

“With  these  measures,”  he  wrote,  “fell  in  all  that  Sett  of 
People,  who  are  called  the  Monied  Men:  such  as  had  raised  vast 
Sums  by  Trading  with  Stocks  and  Funds,  and  Lending  upon 
great  Interest  and  Praemiums;  whose  perpetual  Harvest  is  War, 
and  whose  beneficial  way  of  Traffic  must  very  much  decline 
by  a Peace.” 

Swift  had,  as  we  shall  see,  a deep  hatred  of  war,  of  colonial 
exploitation,  of  the  depression  of  agriculture  by  the  money-lender 
and  stock-jobber.  He  saw  (rightly)  in  the  Whigs  the  Pkrty  which 
stood  for  all  these  things:  he  saw  (wrongly)  in  the  Tories  the  Party 
which  opposed  them  and  stood  for  what  he  felt  to  be  the  older  and 
saner  way  of  life. 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR 


91 


In  a sense.  Swift’s  hatred  of  the  new  forces  was  reactionary,  but 
it  was  neither  dishonest  nor  ignoble.  The  fcjrm  which  his  hatred 
took  was  the  only  one  which  seemed  open  to  him.  A generation, 
two  generations  earlier  he  might  have  become  a l.cvcllcr,  and  the 
duality  of  the  Leveller  outlook,  based  on  a confused  antagonism 
to  both  feudal  and  bourgeois  exploitation,  had  much  in  common 
with  liis  own.  It  is  interesting,  if  no  more,  to  find  that  in  one  of 
his  letters  he  refars  to  Stephen  College,  '‘the  Protestant  Joiner’'  and 
a martyr  of  the  Left  as  "a  noble  person”.  And  a century  later 
William  Godwin,  the  oracle  of  the  1 English  Jacobins,  declared  that 
Swift  showed  “a  more  profound  insight  into  the  true  prijiciplcs  of 
political  justice  than  any  preceding  or  contemporary  author”. 
Swift  was  born  in  an  evil  time  w’heii  there  were  neither  Le\Lllcrs 
nor  Jacobins,  and  in  practice  if  on«  was  pot  a \X  hig  the  only  altcr- 
nathc  was  to  he  a 'Lory, 

Swift  may  be  icckoned  the  first  in  that  curious  succession  of 
Tory  radicals  wlio  expressed  in  a more  or  less  distorted  form  an 
opposition  to  those  features  of  cajutalis^  development  which 
bore  most  opjircssivi  ly  u]  on  the  masses.  In  the  direct  succession, 
Cobbett  was  perhaps  the  last  and  greatest  figure;  but  the  line 
reappears  in  tht  nineteenth  century,  touching  the  fringes  of 
Chartism  in  the  persons  c»f  Oastler,  J.  R.  Stephens  and  Charles 
Kingsley.  Finally,  through  Ruskin,  tliis  Tory  radicalism  was  not 
wnthout  influence  on  William  Morris  and  the  modern  working 
class  movement  in  Britain. 

How  far  he  vas  fnjni  the  common  Tory  beliefs  in  Divine 
Right  and  Non-resistance  both  his  life  and  his  works  bear  full 
witness.  There  is  hardly  a reference  anywhere  to  any  monarch 
wliich  IS  not  one  of  dcris.  jn  and  comempt  and  he  was  never  so 
happily  cmploved  as  wlien  thwarting  the  ministers  who  governed 
in  their  name.  Nor  should  we  forget  how  Gulliver,  visiting  the 
island  of  Glubbdubdrib,  whose  inhabitants  had  the  power  to  recall 
the  dead,  used  his  opportunities: 

'T  had  the  honour  to  nave  much  conversation  with  Brutus; 
and  was  told  that  his  Ancestor  Junius^  Socrates,  lipaminondas^ 
Cato  the  Younger^  Sir  Thomas  More  and  himself  were  per- 
petually* together:  A Sextimvirate  to  which  all  the  Ages  of  the 
NX'orld  cannot  add  a Seventh.  ...  I chiefly  fed  my  eyes  with 
beholding  the  Destroyers  of  Tyrants  and  Usurpers,  and  the 
Restorers  of  Liberty  to  oppressed  and  injured  Nations,  But  it 


92  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

is  impossible  to  express  the  Satisfaction  which  I received  in  my 
own  Mind,  after  such  a Manner  as  to  make  it  a suitable  Enter- 
tainment to  the  Reader.” 

So  if,  as  we  shall  see  presently.  Swift’s  Brobdingnag  was  a 
Tory  utopia,  his  Toryism  would  no  more  have  qualified  him  for 
membership  of  the  Carlton  Club  to-day  than  it  did  in  his  lifetime 
for  the  bishopric  to  which  his  talents  and  services  certainly 
entitled  him.  have  seen  how  he  attacked  the  Whigs  as  the  war 
party.  In  GuUmr^s  Travels  the  theme  of  war  is  approached  again 
and  again.  Gulliver  offers  to  the  King  of  Brobdingnag  the  secret 
of  gunpowder,  and  when  this  offer  is  rejected  with  horror, 
comments  ironically: 

“A  strange  effect  of  narrow  Principles  and  shan't  \^iews!  that  a 
Prince,  possessed  of  every  Quality  which  procures  Veneration, 
Love  and  Esteem;  of  strong  Parts,  great  wisdom  and  profound 
Learning;  endued  with  admirable  Talents  for  Government,  and 
almost  adored  by  his  subjects;  should  from  a nici  unnecessary 
Scruple^  whereof  in  hurope  we  can  have  no  Conception,  let  slip 
an  Opportunity  put  into  his  hands,  that  would  have  made  him 
absolute  Master  of  the  Uves,  the  Liberties,  and  the  I'ortunes  of 
Ills  People.” 

Few  Tories  indeed  have  been  burdened  with  such  nice  un- 
necessary Scruples,  nor  with  these  to  which  Gulliver  confesses 
at  the  end  of  his  voyages,  when  he  considers  whether  he  should 
not  have  annexed  his  discoveries  to  the  Imglish  crown: 

‘‘To  say  the  Truth,  I had  conceived  a few  Scruples  with 
relation  to  the  distributive  Justice  of  Princes  upon  these 
Occasions.  hVir  Instance,  a Crew  of  Pirates  arc  driven  by  a 
Storm  they  know  not  whither;  at  length  a Boy  discovers  Land 
from  the  Top-mast;  they  go  on  Shore  to  rob  and  plunder;  they 
sec  an  harmless  People,  are  entertained  with  Kindness,  they 
give  the  Country  a new  Name,  they  take  formal  Possession  of 
it  for  the  King,  they  set  up  a rotten  Plank  or  a Stone  for  a 
Memorial,  they  murder  two  or  three  Dozen  of  the  Natives, 
bring  away  a Couple  more  by  Force  for  a Sample,  return  home, 
and  get  their  Pardon.  Here  commences  a new  Dominion, 
acquired  with  a Title  by  Divine  Right,  Ships  are  sent  with  the  first 
Opportunity;  the  Natives  driven  out  or  destroyed,  their  Princes 
tortured  to  discover  their  Gold;  a free  Licence  given  to  all 
Acts  of  Inhumanity  and  Lust;  the  Earth  reeking  with  the  Blood 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR  95 

of  its  Inhabitants:  And  this  execrable  Crew  of  Butchers  em- 
ployed in  so  pious  an  Expedition,  is  a Modern  Colony  sent  to 

convert  and  civilize  an  idolatrous  aiid  barbarous  People/’ 

Svift  had  every  reason  to  know  what  he  was  talking  about, 
since,  before  this  passage  was  written,  a sudden  turn  of  political 
events  had  led  to  his  finding  himself,  from  1714,  settled  perman- 
ently in  Ireland,  lingland’s  oldest  and  most  exploited  colony.  For 
a time  he  was  stwnned,  and  the  ‘English’  siilc  of  him  held  him 
aloof.  But  Swift,  with  his  passionate  hatred  of  oppression  and 
injustice  and  his  equally  passionate  desire  to  dominate  Ids  environ- 
ment, could  not  long  be  still.  Step  by  step  he  was  drawn  into  a 
struggle  in  which  all  the  odds  were  against  him,  a struggle 
which  in  (^nc  sense  was  doomed  to  failure  because  he  was  fighting 
the  battles  of  the  future  with  the  weapons  of  the  past.  The  struggle 
ended,  for  him,  in  madness  and  despair,  vet  he  did  succeed  in 
blowing  up  the  almost  dying  fires  of  Irish  nationality  into  a fresh 
blaze,  and  out  of  that  struggle  wc  iiavc  lodav,  among  other  things, 
those  three  master- works.  The  Drupier^  [ jeflcrT^  A Modes/  Proposal 
and  Gulliver's  T ravels. 

Gulliver's  Travels  is  not  merely  Swift’s  masterpiece.  It  is  the 
heart  and  centre  of  all  his  w(»rk,  lying  clear  acrots  the  most  fruitful 
jears  of  liis  life.  Begun  in  1714  and  not  finished  till  shortly  before 
its  publication  in  1726,  there  is  good  evidence  to  show  that  it  was 
seldom  far  fn^m  his  thoughts  in  these  years.  It  was  constantly 
being  rewritten  and  added  to,  so  that  it  reflects  tlie  growth  and 
development  of  hi*'  idcris,  his  first,  second  and  final  thoughts  about 
man  and  society. 

The  Adventures  of  Kobinson  Crusoe  and  Gulhver's  Travels^  then, 
arc  tlie  utopias  of  the  two  greatest  writers  of  the  last  phase  of  the 
English  Revedution,  twin  and  coaiplcmcntary  utopias  whose 
authors,  like  their  heroes,  arc  the  twin  and  complementary  rep- 
resentatives of  their  age.  Their  similarities  and  their  differences 
arc  alike  significant  and  the  next  section  of  tliis  chapter  must 
begin  by  examining  botli  the  similarities  and  the  differences. 

2.  The  Bourgeois  Hero  Reaches  V/opia 

At  first  *it  is  the  similarities  which  strike  us.  Both  Gulliver's 
Travels  and  Robinson  Crusoe  belong  to  a new  world  which  is 
entirely  different  from  that  reflected  in  any  previous  utopia.  In  the 
first  place,  the  cletfjent  of  pure  fiction  is  enormously  increased.  For 


94 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


More,  Bacon,  Harrington,  in  varying  degrees,  the  fiction  was  a 
mere  framework,  a convenient  device  for  getting  their  utopia 
introduced,  never  intended  to  carry  any  real  conviction:  one  can 
think  away  the  fiction  and  what  is  left  would  stand  up  well 
enough.  It  is  impossible  to  think  of  Gulliver's  Travels  or  Kobinson 
Crusoe  in  this  sort  of  way.  Swift,  and  Defoe  still  more,  produce 
novels,  "‘present  for  inspection,  imaginary  gardens  with  real 
toads  in  them.”  There  is  a fundamental  difference  in  approach, 
in  temper  and  in  style.  And  it  is  perhaps  in  their  style  that  the 
difference  is  most  fully  disclosed. 

For  the  first  time  we  have  a style  which  is  fully  bourgeois, 
which  avoids  exccvss  and  pays  dividends,  and  this  is  just  as  true 
of  the  frustrated  aristocrat.  Swift,  as  of  the  optimistic  bourgeois, 
Defoe.  Iwen  More,  the  most  vivid  and  human  of  the  earlier 
Utopians  only  descends  from  the  general  to  the  particular  for 
special  reasons  and  with  an  almost  apologetic  air  of  deliberately 
unbending,  as  in  the  little  episode  of  the  outburst  of  coughing 
in  which  the  exact  situation  of  Utopia  was  for  ever  kist.  But  for 
Swift  and  Defoe  the  general  is  only  built  up  of  an  infinitude  of 
minute  particulars  and  tlie  particular  has  now  become  the  normal. 
By  the  accumulation  of  exact  detail  Defoe  comtuced  us  that  the 
probable  really  happened.  Swift  forces  us  to  suspend  for  a time 
our  disbelief  in  the  impossible. 

And  tlicir  imaginary  gardens  do  not  contain  only  real  toads, 
they  also  contain  real  people  around  whom  the  whole  action  turns. 
The  individual  hero,  tlic  full-scale  bourgeois  man,  having  trans- 
formed Iingland,  has  now  reached  the  shores  of  Utopia.  The 
difference  is  clear  from  the  very  title  of  these  books:  instead  of 
Utopia  and  Oceana  wc  are  offered  The  Straap^e  and  Surprising 
A.dvenhires  of  Kohinson  Crusoe  of  York,  Mariner^  and  'travels  into 
Several  Ren/oti  Nations  of  the  World  by  l^mul  Gulliver^  First  a 
Surgeon  and  then  a Captain  of  Several  Ship^,  It  is  not  only  wliat  Crusoe 
and  Gulliver  see  which  is  important,  but  what  they  do,  and  their 
Utopias  arc  presented  not  in  the  abstract  but  very  much  through 
the  eyes  of  the  visitors:  further,  they  are  not  mere  observers  but 
actors  and  their  actions  change  and  modify  the  Utopias  which 
they  describe.  It  is  significant  that  this  development  is  far  more 
marked  in  the  case  of  Crusoe  than  of  Gulliver. 

At  the  outset  the  social  background  of  each  is  firmly  sketched 
in.  Each  came  from  the  “middle  state”  of  life,  which  Crusoe’s 
father  “had  found  by  long  experience  was  the  best  state  in  the 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR 


95 


world,  the  most  suited  to  human  happiness,  not  exposed  to  the 
miseries  and  hardships,  the  labour  and  sufferings  of  the  mechanical 
part  of  mankind,  and  not  embarrass’d  with  the  pride,  luxury, 
ambition  and  envy  of  the  upper  part  of  mankind/’  liach  was  a 
younger  son.  Here  we  have  the  classic  bourgeois  hero  who  has 
held  the  stage  of  fiction  ever  since,  the  young  man  of  respectable 
family  and  good  parts,  w'lio  has  been  given  a fair  (or,  as  some 
would  say,  an  ui^air)  start  and  has  his  way  to  make  in  th^  world. 
His  adventures  arc  the  counterpart  of  those  of  the  knight  cirant  of 
medieval  romances,  except  that  they  are  undertaken  not  for  their 
own  sake  but  for  some  solidly  material  benefit.  Instead  of  riding 
through  the  Hnehanted  Forest  tf)  the  Well  at  the  World’s  lind  the 
bourgeois  hero  sails  prosaically  by  compass  and  star  around  a well 
charted  world.  However  fantastic  f iuDivor’s  adventures  may  turn 
out  to  be,  he  sets  out  sobcrl)  from  the  Pool  of  J.ondon  and  it  is 
possible  to  determine  the  latitude  and  kmgitudc  ot  his  wildest 
fantasies  with  fair  accuracy:  Gw  liver'  ^ I'ravJs  is  the  first  utopia 
to  be  equipped  with  maps,  and  if  V\ohinsonXj um  is  not  similarly 
prenided  it  is  only  because  all  the  places  he  visited  are  sufficiently 
well  known  to  make  them  unnecessary. 

Fot  by  1700  the  world  was  already  faiily  mapped,  was  ceasing 
to  be  a place  of  woiidcr  and  v'as  becoming  a place  “where  there 
is  a great  deal  of  money  nude”  by  capable  and  self-reliant  young 
men  in  the  middle  stale  of  life.  And  Britain  and  Holland,  the 
countries  of  the  first  victories  of  the  bourgeoisie,  led  the  field  in 
the  hunt  to  ransack  tlic  world.  It  was  natural,  therefore,  that  the 
travel  talc  should  enjoy  an  immense  vogue  in  both  countries,  but 
it  was  a travel  tale  that  hatl  changed  much  since  the  days  of 
Hakluyt.  There,  the  emph..  is  had  been  on  the  conflict  with  Spain, 
the  sacking  of  rich  cities,  aiid  the  capture,  against  fantastic  odds, 
of  galleons  loaded  with  gold  and  silver  plate:  it  was  after  all 
but  one  generation  removed  from  the  old  romances.  But  this  early 
exuberance  had  passed  with  the  other  exuberances  of  the  bour- 
geoisie in  its  “knight  errant  stage”,  the  concern  for  trade  and  for 
trading  opportunities,  whir*  had  always  been  latent,  now  came 
uppermost.  Apart  from  some  odd  corners  the  world  seemed 
sufficiently  known  and  Crusoe’s  object  was  to  use  his  knowledge 
to  profitable  effect. 

And  here  we  strike  the  first,  and  probably  the  most  important, 
difference  between  Defoe  and  Swift.  Both  take  as  ‘hero’  the  new 
bourgeois  man  sefcking  his  profits  at  the  ends  of  the  earth;  but 


96  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

where  Defoe  completely  identifies  himself  with  Crusoe,  Swift 
deliberately  creates  Gulliver  as  a mask  behind  which  his  criticism 
may  be  delivered  with  more  telling  effect,  just  as  earlier  he  had 
done  with  M.B.  the  Dublin  Drapier.  Behind  all  the  similarities 
there  is  the  most  profound  difference:  Swift  and  Defoe  did, 
indeed,  look  at  the  same  world,  and  each  in  his  own  fashion  saw  it 
with  exceptional  clarity,  but  they  looked  with  different  eyes  and 
drew  different  conclusions.  Defoe  accepted  and  rejoiced  in  his 
age,  its  achievements  and  its  order:  Swift  rejected  them  with  bitter- 
ness, with  contempt  and  with  hc*rror.  So,  while  Kobinson  Crusoe 
is  a book  single-minded  almost  to  the  point  of  naivety,  Gtilliver*s 
Travels  contains  a vast  and  fascinating  contradiction  between  its 
form  and  its  content,  a contradiction  without  which  it  could  never 
have  become  a nursery  classic.  As  Professor  H.  Davis  says: 

‘‘We  may  regard  Gulliver's  Travels  as,  both  in  form  and  shape, 

wholly  the  product  of  the  eighteenth  century,  wliile  being  at 

the  same  time  the  most  violent  satire  of  its  hopes  and  dreams 

and  a repudiation  of  much  that  it  most  valued.”  , 

Where  Ousoc,  like  Defoe,  is  the  man  of  his  age,  the  represen- 
tative (jf  the  all-conqucring  bourgeoisie,  Gulliver  is  the  lost  and 
defeated  man.  The  irony  of  liis  fate  is  only  underlined  by  the 
commonplace  clothes  in  which  Swift  has  chosen  to  dress  hirVi. 
Crusoe  travels  because  there  arc  never  enough  worlds  for  him  to 
conquer,  Gulliver  in  search  of  a substitute  for  the  lost  (and  of 
course  largely  fictitious)  world  that  the  bouigcois  revolution  has 
destroyed.  Crusoe  finds  what  he  is  looking  for,  because  it  is  only 
the  replica  of  the  w^orld  from  which  he  sails.  Gulliver  can  never 
find  his  vanished  world  because  he  must  take  with  him  wherever 
he  goes  the  essence  of  the  real  world  of  which  he  is  the  unwilling 
representative. 

1‘here  is  nothing  in  Robinson  Crusoe  but  its  genius  to  warn  the 
reader  that  it  is  not  what  it  claims  to  be,  an  authentic  work  of 
travel  and  adventure.  Not  even  the  most  stupid  reader  (for  I can- 
not believe  the  unnamed  Irish  bishop  who  according  to  Swift 
declared  that  “the  book  was  full  of  improbable  lies,  and  for  his 
part  he  hardly  believed  a word  of  it”  to  be  anything  but  an 
invention)  could  make  such  a mistake  about  Gulliver's  Travels. 
While  both  derive  by  way  of  the  travel  tale  from  the  romances  of 
chivalry,  Gulliver's  Travels  has  a second  ancestor — the  wonder 
tale,  and  in  it  satire  and  realism,  horror,  wit  and  fantasy  are 


REASOK  IN  DESPAIR 


97 


combined  in  a wholly  new  way.  This  element  of  fantasy  is  in 
Swift,  and  in  many  though  not  all  of  his  predecessors,  further 
evidence  of  a profound  sense  of  social  defeat  and  of  a retreat  from 
the  reality  of  the  world  in  which  that  defeat  had  been  suffered. 

Here,  however,  a distinction  must  be  drawn,  since  there  have 
been  times  when  fantasy  has  had  quite  another  character.  The 
fantasy  of  Rabelais  or  of  Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  both  of  whose 
work  had  elements  of  a utopian  character,  both  of  who  a Swift 
had  read  and  ffom  whom  he  probably  took  hints  that  were 
developed  in  Gulliver^ s Travels^  (the  Academy  of  Lagado  from  the 
Court  of  Queen  \X'him,  the  significance  of  physical  sisse  and  the 
fantasy  of  inverted  logic  from  dc  Bergerac’s  I \}age  io  ibe  Moon) 
is  that  of  a rising  class,  exuberant  and  conscious  of  its  increasing 
power  and  using  this  weapon  to  ridicule  the  shams  and  absurdities 
of  a decaying  society.  It  is  there  a weapon  of  the  new  Humanism 
against  the  theory  and  practice  of  tlie  aMiddle  A.gts.  \t  the  same 
time,  the  decaying  feudal  order  r^maineil  politkally  powerful,  and 
a strict  censorship  forced  its  critics  to  adopt  an  Aesopian  language 
without  wluch  their  criticism  would  never  have  been  heard.  For 
the  same  reason,  France  in  the  eighteenth  century,  when  the 
bourgeois  revolution  was  maturing,  prodiiced  a whole  crop  of 
utopias  at  a time  when  in  bngland  tliis  form  had  temporarily 
almost  disappeared.  Here  the  bouigcois  revolution  had  been 
accomplished,  and  the  question  of  its  successor  had  not  been 
raised.  In  France,  Fojgny  and  Diderot,  Mably,  Morelly  and  even 
Voltaire  found  the  utopian  form  admirable  as  a means  of  attacking 
Cbtablishcd  institv  iono,  religious  beliefs  or  even  social  and  sexual 
customs  in  a way  which  would  be  generally  understood  without 
laying  themselves  open  n official  reprisals.  The  same  is  true  of 
Swift,  who  could  never  hr  ve  ventured  to  say  many  of  the  things 
he  did  in  a more  direct  form,  and,  even  as  it  was,  had  considerable 
apprehensions  for  his  own  liberty. and  the  safety  of  his  printer’s 
ears. 

Cervantes,  too,  had  used  fanta^v  to  ridicule  the  old  order,  but 
here  a marked  difference  can  be  seen.  Spain  in  the  early  seven- 
teenth century  was  a country  in  which  the  bourgeoisie  had  failed 
to  take  the  necessary  first  steps  towards  the  conquest  of  power, 
a country  already  entering  the  long  decline  which  has  lasted  down 
to  our  own  time.  Spain  had  become  the  centre  of  religious  and 
political  reaction  in  Europe,  and  the  old  and  new  orders  were 
involved  in  an  interrelationship  in  which  both  were  poisoned  and 


98  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

degraded.  So  that  Cervantes,  while  criticising  the  old  order 
through  the  person  of  Don  Quixote,  is  forced  to  criticise  without 
a solid  basis  on  which  to  rest.  He  criticises,  not  from  the  stand- 
point of  a rising,  progressive  class,  but  from  a subjective  idealism, 
that  is  sometimes  strikingly  akin  to  that  of  Swift.  And,  criticising 
the  past,  he  too  finds  present  and  future  equally  distasteful  while 
driven  to  despair,  he  too  takes  refuge  in  illusic^n,  magic  and 
fantasy.  Don  Quixote  is  a true  hero,  but  a defeated  hero  the  worst 
tragedy  of  whose  defeat  lies  in  its  absurdity.  Boih  in  their  great- 
ness and  in  the  tragedy  of  their  failure,  Cervantes  and  Swift, 
Quixote  and  Gulliver,  seem  to  me  to  have  more  in  common  than 
is  generally  realised. 

To  turn  from  Cervantes  and  Rabelais  to  the  immt  diate  English 
predecessors  of  Cullive/s  Travels  is  to  turn  from  the  great  to  the 
trivial.  Yet  some  of  them  have  interest  as  indications  of  the 
background  from  which  Swift’s  work  emerged.  Most  naive  of  all, 
perhaps,  is  ^The  Description  of  a New  Worlds  Called  the  l&lasfing  Worlds 
by  Margaret  Cavendish,  Duchess  of  Newcastle,  wife  of  the 
Royalist  General  defeated  at  Marston  Moor.  Published  in  1668  it 
was  probably  written  earlier  when  she  and  her  husband  shared  the 
exile  of  Charles  11.  It  is  a wholly  reactionary  utoj^ia,  monarcliical 
and  anti-scientific,  but,  like  its  author,  so  child-like  and  having  the 
occasional  shrewdness  of  a child,  that  it  is  impossible  to  judge  it 
ovcr-harshly. 

The  Naming  World  is  said  to  be  joined  to  this  world  by  the 
North  Pole.  It  is  visited  by  the  Duchess  and  so  at  least  can  claim 
the  honour  of  being  the  first  utopia  written  by  a woman  and 
having  a heroine  as  its  central  figure.  For  reasons  that  are  never  at 
all  clear  she  quickly  becomes  Empress.  Of  its  Government,  she 
asks  the  inhabitants 

*‘why  they  have  so  few  laws?  To  which  they  answered,  That 
many  J^aws  make  many  Divisions,  which  most  commonly 
breed  Factions  and  at  last  break  out  into  open  wars.  Next  she 
asked,  Why  they  preferred  the  Monarchical  form  of  Govern- 
ment before  any  other?  They  answered.  That  as  it  was  natural 
for  a body  to  have  one  Head,  so  it  was  natural  for  a Body 
Politick  to  have  but  one  Governor,  and  that  a Commonwealth, 
which  had  many  Governors  was  like  a Monster  with  many 
Heads.  Besides,  said  they,  a Monarchy  is  a divine  form  of 
Government  and  agrees  most  with  our  religion.” 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR 


99 

This  Utopia  is  inhabited  by  many  kinds  c'f  men  in  animal 
shape  who  follow  trades  and  professions  adapted  to  their  nature, 
and  the  Empress,  not  one  feels  without  a certain  malice,  forms 
them  into  appropriate  Societies: 

“The  Bear-men  were  to  be  her  1 experimental  Philosophers, 
the  Bird-men  her  Astronomers,  the  liy-.  Worm-  and  Pish-men 
her  Natural  Philosophers,  the  Ape-men  her  Chymis^s,  the 
Satyrs  her  Chilenical  Physicians,  the  Trog-men  her  I^oliticians, 
the  Spider-  and  J^ice-men  her  Mathematicians,  the  Jackdaw-, 
Magpie-  and  Parrot-men  her  Orators  and  Logicians,  the 
Gy  ants  her  Arcliitects  etc.’’ 

Here,  just  because  of  its  complete  simplicity,  tlic  role  of  fantasy 
as  compcnsati(jn  for  defeat  is  seen  ot  its  rlearcst.  Margaret  ("aven- 
dish,  in  cxili,  consumed  with  pride  in  her  and  her  husband’s 
family,  her  wealth  vanished,  contemptuous  of  the  victorious 
Commonwealth,  ridiculed  bv  the  raffish,  ^bankrupt  Court  that 
surrounded  (Sharks  abroad  as  an  eccentric,  frumpish  blue- 
stocking, crowned  hersell  luiiprcss  of  a Ncve»'-ncver  World, 
covered  herself  with  a blaze  of  diamonds  and  inocked  or  exiled 
all  those  whom  she  hated  or  could  not  understand.  Here,  but  for 
the  Grace  of  Genius,  goes  Jonathan  Swift! 

Two  other  utopias  need  only  a few  words.  Of  one.  The  llis/ory 
of  the  Sevante^^  something  was  said  in  the  last  Chapter.  It  need  only 
be  added  that  the  fusion  of  realism  and  fantasy,  of  the  travel  tale 
and  the  wonder  i.  vhicli  is  so  outstanding  in  GuUiver^s  1 ravels 
is  very  clearly  marked. 

The  same  is  true  of  an  "^arlier  w^ork  The  Man  in  the  hioon;  or 
a discourse  of  a Voyage  th  fher  by  Doniinyp  Gonsales^  written  by 
Bishop  Prancis  Godwin  and  first  published  in  1638.  ^ Reprinted 
in  Swift’s  lifclime,  it  is  now  most  easily  to  be  fr^und,  quaintly 
disguised  as  the  body  of  a pamphlet  called  ^^ieiv  of  Si  lielenay 
in  the  Harleian  Miscellany,  Not  only  is  there  the  same  fusion 
noted  above,  but  a number  of  specific  similarities  which  suggest 

1 Of  this  book  Anthony  W ood  writes:  “This  book  , . . was  censured  to  be  as  vain 
as  the  opinion  of  Copernicus ^ 01  the  st  ranee  discourses  ( f the  Antipodes  when  first 
heard  of.  Yet  since; by  a more  int^uisitivc  search  in  unra\elJing  those  intricacies,  men 
of  solid  judgments  have  since  foun  1 out  a \va>  tf>  pick  up  that  which  ma>  add  a very 
considerable  knowledge  and  advantage  to  jKJStcrity.  Among  which  Dr.  Wilkins^ 
sometimes  Bishop  of  CheUer^  composed  by  hints  thence  given,  (as  ’tis  thought) 
a learned  piece  cdled  A distovery  of  a Nc»'  World  in  the  Moon”  {Athena  Oxomenses, 
1691). 


lOO 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


that  Swift  was  probably  familiar  with  Godwin’s  work.  There  is 
the  same  insistence  on  size:  Gonsales  is  a dwarf  and  most  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  moon  giants  who  despise  the  stunted,  short 
lived  minority: 

‘^Them  they  account  base  unworthy  creatures,  but  one 
degree  above  brute  beasts,  and  employ  in  mean  and  servile 
otficcs,  calling  them  bastards,  counterfeits  or  changelings.” 

In  general  there  is  a strong  likeness  to  the  classical-heioic  outlook 
of  Swift.  There  arc  no  laws,  no  theft  because  no  poverty,  little 
disease,  no  fear  of  death.  It  will  be  seen  how  much  this  atmosphere 
resembles  that  of  the  Houyhnhnms.  One  feature,  the  ingenious 
mechanical  contrivance  by  wliich  Gonsales  is  carried  to  the  moon 
by  wild  geese,  anticipates  somewhat  a still  later  utopia,  Paltock’s 
Pe/er  Wilkins. 


3.  Gulliver^  s Progress 

If  Gulliver's  Tnwds  has  a long  and  complcK  pedigree,  Kobinson 
Crusoe y considered  as  a utopia,  has  but  little.  1 F.arlicr  utopias  had 
been,  in  one  way  or  another,  pictures  of  a community;  something 
of  the  social  unity  and  stability  which  feudal  society  had  inherited 
from  tribal  is  taken  for  granted,  and  the  individual,  however 
tenderly  his  needs  may  be  considered,  is  still  part  of  a greater 
whole,  Robinson  Crusoe  is  the  ])ure  bourgeois  man,  the  man 
completely  alone,  and  his  utopia  is  a one-man  colony  where  the 
individual  owes  everything  to  his  own  efforts  and  is  neither 
helped  nor  hindered  by  anyone.  It  is  typical  of  the  bourgeois 
that  he  always  attributes  his  wealth  to  his  r)wn  work,  genuinely 
ignoring  what  he  docs  not  wish  to  see,  the  working  class  to  whose 
exploitation  that  wealth  is  due.  The  illusion  of  independence  has 
always  been  his  favourite  illusion.  In  a society  whose  first  law  is 
competition,  independence  carried. to  the  l(^gical  absurdity  of 
absolute  solitude  cannot  be  without  a certain  theoretical  appeal, 
since  solitude  means  first  of  all  freedom  from  competitors  and 
only  secondarily  the  absence  of  assistants.  This  is  the  basis  of  the 
widespread  desert  island  dream,  in  which  the  hero  is  always  either 
alone  or  king  of  the  island. 

Crusoe  indeed  complains  of  the  lack  of  company  on  his  island, 
but  in  reality  he  is  sufficiently  reconciled  to  his  state  and  presently 

1 But  see  p.  84  for  Ne vile’s  The  Isle  of  Pms. 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR 


lOI 


discovers  ample  compensations.  When  other  inliabitants  do  arrive 
he  is  careful  to  make  sure  that  they  come  as  servants  or  tenants. 
When  enough  have  been  collected  the  final  happy  state  is  reached 
in  which  the  proprietor  Crusoe  can  leave  his  property  to  itself, 
and,  withdravm  from  the  actual  labour  of  prciduction,  can  collect 
rent  and  profit  from  a distance.  The  bourgeois  utopia,  in  short,  is 
the  foundation  of  a colony  by  the  free  bourgeois  man. 

Not  that  this  njan  is  without  quite  admirable  qualities.  Crusoe, 
like  Defoe,  is  by  cightcenth-ccntury  standards  humane  and 
even  generous.  He  is  singularly  devoid  of  narrow  racial  or 
religious  prejudices  and  at  all  times  finds  it  necessary  to  satisfy 
himself  that  his  actions  are  in  accord  with  the  strictest  moral 
principles.  Thus  he  has  a long  debate  with  liiniself  as  to  the 
lawfulness  of  massacring  the  cannibals,  and  in  fact  does  not  do  so 
till  good  moral  grounds  offer  themselves.  In  Vurthcr  Adventures  he 
is  genuinely  distressed  at  the  destruction  by  his  shijjmates  of  a 
native  village  in  Madagascar,  though  even  licrc  he  almost  manages 
to  wsatisfy  himself  in  the  end  that  some  jus'lilication  existed.  But 
in  the  long  run,  and  this  again  is  where  (ausoe  stands  for  the  true 
bourgeois  man,  he  d<^es  almost  always  convince  himself  that  what 
is  profitable  is  right,  just  as  ]')cfoc  was  always  certain  that  however 
dubious  some  of  tiis  actions  might  appear,  they  were  always 
reconcilable  to  *‘true  Revolution  principles.’' 

It  is  I think  the  unity  and  simplicity  of  Kobinson  Crusoe^  the 
unity  and  simplicity  of  life  as  it  appeared  to  a class  before  whom 
the  future  seemed  to  offer  an  eternity  of  success  and  to  w’hom 
Heaven’s  Gate  seemed  hardly  further  off  than  Cathay,  which  makes 
it  most  of  all  so  complete  a contrast  to  G/Mver's  Travels,  And  it 
seems  natural  enough,  the  Tore,  that  the  former  was  written  in 
a single  burst,  almost  as  an  afterthought  to  a life  packed  witli  the 
most  various  activities,  whereas,  as  1 have  already  said,  Gulliver* s 
Travels  was  the  |')roduct  of  Swift’s  twelve  most  creative  years, 
constantly  revised  and  expanded  and  reflecting  both  the  develop- 
ment and  the  contradictions  of  his  tnought  during  that  time.  It  is 
now  necessary  to  turn  ana  ^r.ice  in  some  detail  the  chronology  of 
its  composition  and  the  changes  which  it  wxnt  through. 

Written  as  it  was,  it  is  neither  a single  book  nor  a single 
utopia.  It  is  a*  series  of  short  books  strung  on  the  thread  of  a 
common  central  character,  and  a scries  of  utopias,  some  positive 
and  s(;mc  negative.  That  is  to  say  the  social  criticism  is  conveyed 
in  some  places  by  descriptions  of  a Commonwealth  whose  merits 


102 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


Swift  holds  Up  as  an  example  to  his  countrymen  but  in  others  by 
those  whose  vices  and  follies  constitute  a satirical  attack  upon 
familiar  institutions.  More  than  this,  there  are  parts  where  both 
elements  are  found  in  conjunction,  and  in  this  respect  as  perhaps 
in  others.  Swift  seems  to  have  served  as  a model  for  Samuel  Butler 
when  he  came  to  write  his  Erewhon. 

Early  in  1714  Swift  joined  with  his  friends  Arbuthnot,  Pope, 
Gay  and  Parnell  to  compile  a joint  satire.  The  Memoirs  of  Martin 
Scriblerus.  Swift’s  contribution  seems  to  have  been  an  account  of 
a voyage  to  the  land  of  pygmies  which  grew  into  the  first  part  of 
Book  I of  Gulliver  s Travels^  and  the  satire  on  projectors  which 
was  later  expanded  to  make  a large  section  of  Book  III.  Tfien 
came  the  death  of  Queen  Anne  and  Swift’s  retirement  to  Dublin: 
for  some  years  he  was  stunned  into  silence  by  tliis  blow  and  in 
these  jears  of  silence  his  genius  matured  and  took  a new  direction. 
His  hatred  of  injustice  and  oppression  was  intensified  by  the 
conspicuous  example  which  he  discovered  in  Ireland. 

In  1719  Defoe  scored  an  immense  popular  success  with  Kobinson 
Crusoe,  Swift  had  no  high  opinion  of  Defoe.  "J'he  fellow  was  a 
Whig,  a sneaking  tradesman  and  a vulgar  ignoramus  whose 
writings  were  below  the  notice  of  the  polite  wits  who  filled  the 
literary  coffee  houses.  Defoe  might  well  have  answered  in  the 
words  which  Swift  wrote  about  himself: 

“As  for  his  works  in  Verse  and  Prose, 

I own  myself  no  Judge  of  those: 

Nor,  can  1 tell  what  Criticks  thought  ’em; 

But,  this  I know,  all  People  bought  ’em;” 

and  we  need  not  enter  in  to  the  perhaps  inevitable  hostility 
between  these  two  great  men.  What  seems  clear,  however,  is  that 
the  success  of  Defoe’s  imaginary  travel  talc  turned  Swift’s  mind 
back  to  the  long  neglected  manuscript  in  which  he  had  once 
begun  to  exploit  this  genre  to  so  different  an  end.  At  any  rate, 
about  1720  he  is  again  at  work  upon  what  had  now  become 
Gulliver’s  adventures  in  Lilliput. 

But,  whereas  the  earlier  chapters  had  been  a light-hearted 
satire  on  the  littleness  of  man  and  the  folly  of  his  delusions  of 
grandeur,  a new  and  bitter  note  can  now  be  detected.  Gulliver 
himself,  who  at  the  beginning  of  the  book  had  appeared  to  stand 
for  Swift,  has  now  become  Bolingbroke  and  his  disgrace  and  exile 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR  103 

is  an  account  in  cipher  of  Bolingbroke's  fall  from  power.  Much 
later  other  additions  were  made:  Walpole  is  introduced  in  the 
character  of  Flimnap  and  there  are  allusions  to  events  as  late  as 
the  revival  of  the  Order  of  the  Bath  (1725)  and  the  award  to 
Walpole  of  tlie  Order  of  the  Garter  (May,  1726).  It  is  clear  in 
general  that  right  up  to  its  publication  in  1726  Swift  was  con- 
stantly taking  out  his  manuscript  and  adding  some  fresh  touch  as 
it  came  into  his  rpind. 

There  are,  consequently,  all  sorts  of  contradictions  and  incon- 
gruities. One  such  is  Chapter  VI  of  the  T.illiputian  book.  The 
general  character  of  the  book  is  clear:  it  is  a negative  utopia. 
Swift’s  ironic  comment  on  human  littleness,  on  the  absurdity  of 
political  pretensions,  feuds  and  honours.  Swift  .stands  above  the 
English  scene  and  Idllijiut  is  what  he  sees  there.  But  in  ChapterVI, 
obviously  written  much  later  than  mo^st  (>f  th^  rest  of  the  book, 
this  giant’s  eye  view  is  abandoned  in  favour  of  a few  pages  of 
direct  utopian  writing  very  much  nearer  to  the  classic  manner 
of  More. 

In  it  Swift  describes  eeitain  laws  and  custcuns  which  ‘‘if  they 
were  not  so  directly  contrary  to  those  of  my  own  dear  country, 
I should  be  tempted  to  say  a little  in  their  justifkation”.  In  Lilliput 
informers  are  discouraged,  fraud  more  scver,.]y  regarded  than 
theft,  and  virtue  rewarded  at  the  san>c  time  that  ami-social 
behaviour  is  punidicd.  No  one  thinks  the  management  of  public 
affairs  a mystery  and  therefore  they  regard  the  honest  man  of 
average  abilities  the  fittest  to  be  entrusted  with  it.  All  tliis  is 
very  much  in  line  witli  Swift’s  peculiar  brand  of  Toryism,  and  his 
account  of  Lilliputian  education  is  still  more  characteristic. 

Parents,  they  say,  “are  tl  ^ least  of  all  others  to  be  entrusted  with 
the  education  of  their  own  children'’  and  this  is  entirely  taken 
over  by  the  State  from  an  early  age.  The  education  given  is 
entirely  determined,  not  by  the  abilities  shown  by  the  children 
but  by  the  social  status  of  their  parents.  There  is  one  system 
for  the  children  of  the  nobility,  another  for  those  of  the  gentry, 
and  so  forth. 

“Only  those  destined  for  trade  are  put  out  apprentice  at 
eleven  years  old,  whereas  those  of  persons  of  quality  continue 
in  their  exctcises  till  fifteen,  which  answers  to  one  and  twenty 
with  us.  . . . The  cottagers  and  labourers  keep  their  children  at 
home,  their  business  being  merely  to  till  and  cultivate  the  earth. 


104  the  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

and  therefore  their  education  is  of  little  consequence  to  the 

public.” 

Here  the  reactionary  side  of  Swift’s  philosophy  shows  itself. 
He  accepts  the  feudal  conception  of  degree  and  adopts  it  as 
the  basis  for  a static  Utopia  in  which  an  everlasting  golden  age 
can  be  preserved  by  the  rigid  division  of  society  in  classes  which 
are  almost  castes,  each  with  its  own  duties  and, rights  and  across 
whose  boundaries  it  is  impossible  to  pass.  This  rigid  structure, 
indeed,  is  inherent  in  all  the  early  Utopias  whose  authors  con- 
ceived them  as  completed  works  of  art,  finished,  perfect  and 
unchanging.  Human  society,  like  the  universe,  was  something 
deliberately  created,  not  something  which  had  evolved  dialectic- 
ally  from  the  development  of  its  own  contradictions,  and  all  that 
was  needed  for  Swift,  as  for  More,  was  an  ideal  pattern.  It  was 
the  contrast  between  this  ideal  perfection  and  the  obviously 
imperfect  world,  and  the  impossibility  of  finding  any  way  of 
bridging  the  gap  between  the  two  which  drove  them  to  despair  of 
humanity. 

Meanwhile,  at  this  early  stage.  Swift  is  concerned  with  the 
problem  of  size,  and  to  it  he  returns  in  the  Second  Book,  written 
apparently  soon  after  work  on  Gulliver's  Travels  was  resumed, 
and,  to  judge  from  the  internal  evidence,  written  very  much  more 
in  a single  burst.  Here  Gulliver  visits  Brobdingnag,  to  whose 
people  he  is  exactly  in  the  same  proportion  as  the  Lilliputians 
were  to  him.  Brobdingnag  is  a simjdc  Utopia  of  abundance,  not 
an  ideal  commonwealth,  as  the  horrifying  account  of  the  beggars 
shows,  not  without  grossness  and  imperfections,  yet  having  many 
of  the  qualities  that  Swift  most  desired.  Degree  is  observed,  and 
we  have  a land  of  simple,  prosperous,  hardworking  and  hard 
fisted  yeomen,  whose  wants  are  amply  supplied  by  native  mer- 
chants and  craftsmen.  The  nation  in  arms  makes  a standing  army 
or  any  peculiar  stale  machinery  superfluous,  and  government  is 
reduced  to  a minimum.  No  law  is  allowed  to  exceed  in  number  of 
words  the  number  of  letters  contained  in  their  alphabet.  A minor 
feature  especially  pleasing  to  Swift  was  the  complete  absence  of 
seaports  and  hence  of  foreign  trade. 

The  physical  size  of  the  Brobdingnagians  has  as  its  counterpart 
the  possession  of  the  heroic  virtues,  so  that  when  their  kihg 
passes  his,  and  Swift’s  judgement  upon  Europe  it  is  expressed  in' 
terms  of  size: 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR  lOJ 

cannot  but  consider  the  Bulk  of  your  Nation  to  be  the 
most  pernicious  Race  of  little  odious  Vermin  that  Nature  ever 
suffered  to  crawl  upon  the  Surface  of  the  Earth.’* 

Swift’s  philosophy,  as  expressed  in  these  first  two  Books,  is  that 
man  would  pass  muster  if  he  were  bigger,  physically,  mentally 
and  morally  and  that  a return  to  a life  of  few  wants  and  simple 
virtue  would  provide  a sufficiency  of  happiness. 

But  one  great  change  can  already  be  seen.  A large  part  of 
Book  I was  written  in  England,  and  the  scene  is  that  of  English 
politics.  By  1720  Swift  had  been  for  six  years  in  Ireland  and  in  the 
rest  of  Gulliver's  Travels  it  is  Ireland  which  provides  the  back- 
ground, an  Ireland  devastated  by  two  centuries  of  war  and  mis- 
government.  Her  people  vere  sharply  divided  into  two  nations: 
the  Anglo-  Irish  upper  and  middle  cla^scs  to  which  Swift  belonged 
and  the  ‘old  Irish’,  the  peasants,  degraded  almost  beyond 
humanity  by  their  sufferings,  Ireland  at  this  time  was  a conquered 
province,  ncarcu:  than  ever  before  or  since  to  a cc'^mpletc  loss  of  its 
semse  of  nationliood.  So  when  Swift  draws  a picture  of  tlic  agri- 
cultural prosperity  of  Biobdingnag  it  is  the  contrast  with  the 
starving  Irish  peasantry  around  him  that  is  in  his  mind. 

And  it  was  in  1-^20  that  Swift  puDlished  the  first  of  his  scries  of 
Irish  pamphlets,  urging  the  people  to  develop  their  native 
resources  and,  like  the  Brobdingnagians,  to  import  nothing  from 
abroad,  especially  from  England,  lliis  was  fidlowcd  in  1724  by 
the  more  famous  Drapier's  Ijetiers  which  made  Swift  a national 
figure  and  defeats  1 the  project  of  Wood’s  1 lalfpeticc.  But  even  in 
his  \ictory  Swift  passed  to  a more  utter  despair.  He  could  win  a 
limited  success  of  this  son  but  it  could  not  touch  the  heart  of  the 
problem,  the  problem  ot  Irish  poverty  and  the  misery  of  the 
peasant  masses.  So,  in  1729,  he  wrote  in  A.  Modest  Proposal: 

“Therefore  let  no  Man  talk  to  me  of  other  Expedients:  Of 
taxing  our  Absentees  at  five  sliilUngs  a pound:  of  using  neither 
Cloath  nor  household  Furniture,  except  what  is  of  our  own 
Growth  and  Manufaci  ..e.  ...  Of  learning  to  Love  our 
Country,  wherein  we  differ  even  from  the  Laplanders  and  the 
Inhabitants  of  topinamboo.  . . . Of  being  a little  Cautious  not 
to  Sell  our  Country  and  Consciences  for  nothing:  Of  teaching 
Landlords  to  have  at  least  one  degree  of  Mercy  towards  their 
Tenants.  Lastly  of  putting  a Spirit  of  Honesty,  Industry  and 
Skill  into  our  Shopkeepers.  ... 


Io6  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

**But  as  to  myself,  having  been  wearied  ont  for  many  Years 
with  offering  vain,  idle,  visionary  thoughts,  and  at  length 
utterly  despairing  of  Success,  I fortunately  fell  upon  this 
Proposal  [that  the  children  of  the  poor  should  be  fattened  and 
sold  for  the  tables  of  the  rich],  which  as  it  is  wholly  new,  so  it 
hath  something  Solid  and  Real,  of  no  Expence  and  little 
Trouble,  full  in  our  own  Power,  and  whereby  we  can  incur  no 
Danger  in  disobliping  England.""^ 

The  expedients  were  vain,  idle  ana  visionary  because  there  was  no 
class  in  Ireland  at  that  time  wliich  had  the  will  and  the  power  to  act 
effectively.  Swift,  too,  was  growing  old  and  suffering  from  in- 
creasing infirmity.  As  he  looked  around  him  despair  deepened 
into  approaching  madness,  and  it  was  in  this  mood  that  the  later 
parts  of  Gulliver's  Travels  were  written. 

Book  III  is  the  most  confused  and  contradictory  part  of  the 
whole  work  because  the  greatest  gap  existed  between  its  different 
elements.  It  embodies  some  of  the  earliest  and  some  of  the  latest 
sections.  The  section  dealing  with  the  scientific  projectors  was 
mostly  written  about  1714,  though  even  here  a letter  from 
Arbuthnot  shovt  s that  as  Lite  as  1725  he  was  still  making  addi- 
tions. The  satire  on  projectors  is  in  part  an  attack  on  Newton 
and  contemporary  science,  an  attack  that  was  not  particularly 
successful  because  Swift  never  fully  understood  what  he  was 
attempting  to  satirise.  His  attitude  is  clear  from  a remark  about 
the  Brobdingnagians: 

“The  Learning  of  this  People  is  very  defective;  consisting 
only  in  Morality,  History,  Poetry  and  Mathematicks;  wherein 
they  must  be  allowed  to  exccU.  But,  tlie  last  of  these  is  wholly 
applied  to  what  may  be  useful  in  Life;  to  the  Improvement  of 
Agriculture  and  all  mechanical  Arts;  so  that  among  us  it 
would  be  little  esteemed.” 

Swift  did  not  grasp  the  effect  the  scientific  advances  of  his  day 
were  to  exercise  on  production  methods,  though  perhaps  if  he  had 
he  would  have  liked  them  none  the  better  for  that. 

Besides  the  satire  on  scientific  projectors,  however,  there  is  the 
satire  on  political  projectors,  who  make  statecraft  a sacred  mystery 
to  befuddle  and  rob  the  common  people,  and  I thinkthatif  it  were 
possible  to  disentangle  all  the  details  it  would  be  found  that  most 
of  this  was  a later  addition  resulting  from  his  Irish  experiences. 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR  I07 

The  account  of  the  way  in  which  the  agriculture  of  Balnibarbi 
had  been  deliberately  ruined  by  the  greed  and  folly  of  its  land- 
lords is  closely  parallel  to  what  Swift  was  writitig  about  Irish 
landlords  in  the  pamphlets  of  the  same  period. 

And  the  w^holc  fabric  of  the  flying  island,  Laputa,  and  its 
relation  to  tlie  mamland  below  it,  is  a direct  satire  on  England  and 
Ireland  with  many  references  to  the  battle  c»ver  Wood^s  Half- 
pence, some  of  which  must  have  been  added  as  laic  as  1725. 
Laputa,  whose  name,  derived  from  the  Spamsh,  means  the 
whore,  is  inhabited  by  a completely  idle  and  parasitic  ruling  class, 
divorced  from  all  the  realities  of  life  and  concerned  only  to  suck 
tribute  from  their  literally  subject  territory.  E.sscntiallv,  Book  111 
is  a negative  uropia  aimed  at  the  systeiv.  o^  colotiial  exploitation 
operating  from  behind  a mask  of  false  reason,  false  science  and 
false  enlightenment. 

Finally  we  have  the  hortif^ing  accoutit  of  the  Struldbrugs,  the 
people  doomed  to  live  for  ever  aitcr  the  loss  of  all  the  capabilities 
that  make  life  c^tidurablc.  Swift  had  alwajs  Iiad  a horror  of  such  a 
fate  and  in  this  chapter,  which  Piofcssor  Davis  suggests  may  have 
been  the  last  written  of  the  whvde  work,  he  seems  to  realise  that  it 
was  indeed  closing  in  upon  liim.  Yet  the  icahy  remarkable  fact 
about  Swift  is  the  way  in  wliich  liis  increasing  horn)r  and  despair 
deepened  his  understanding  and  sharpened  his  crilicisiii.  This  is 
most  of  all  apparent  111  Book  I V,  \vh^.rc  CJulliver  visits  tlic  country 
of  the  llouyhnhnms,  the  rational  horses.  Swift  had  previously 
satirised  particular  abuses  and  injustices.  Now  he  drives  at  the  very 
structure  of  European  society  and  he  depicts  it  with  a clarity  that 
only  More  and  Winstanley  among  his  predecessors  had  attained: 

‘T  was  at  much  l^ains  lo  dcscirib*  to  him  the  Use  oi  Money y the 
Materials  it  was  made  of,  and  the  Value  of  the  Metals:  that  when 
a Yahoo  had  got  a great  Store  of  this  precious  Substance,  he 
was  able  to  purchase  w^hatever  he  had  a mind  to;  the  finest 
Cloathing,  the  noblest  Houses,  grca4'  Tracts  of  I.and,  the  n\ost 
costly  Meats  and  Drirn  and  have  his  Choice  of  the  most 
beautiful  Females.  Therefore  since  Money  alone,  was  able  to 
perform  all  these  Feats,  our  Yahoos  thought,  they  could  never 
have  enough  of  it  to  spend  or  to  save,  as  they  found  themselves 
inclined  fro’m  their  natural  Bent  either  to  Profusion  or  Avarice. 
That,  the  rich  Man  enjoyed  the  Fruit  of  the  poor  Man's  Labour, 
and  the  latter  were  a Thousand  to  One  in  Proportion  to  the 


Io8  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

former.  That  the  bulk  of  our  People  was  forced  to  live  miser- 
ably by  labouring  every  Day  for  small  wages  to  make  a few 
live  plentifully.  I enlarged  myself  much  on  these  and  many 
other  Particulars  to  the  same  Purpose:  but  his  Honour  was  still 
to  seek:  For  he  went  upon  a supposition  that  all  Animals  had 
a Title  to  their  Share  in  the  Productions  of  the  Earth:  and 
especially  those  who  presided  over  the  rest.’’ 

t 

This  title  is  simply  the  Birthright  for  which  the  Levellers  had 
contended  two  generations  before,  and  it  was  no  doubt  passages 
like  this,  and  others  in  which  Law,  government,  commerce  and 
war  are  discussed  in  a similar  vein  which  won  the  approval  of 
Godwin  two  generations  later. 

There  is,  however,  much  more  here  than  negative  satire. 
Book  IV,  like  Book  II,  is  a positive  utopia,  perhaps  the  strangest 
ever  conceived  and  one  which  marks  a new  turn  in  Swift’s 
thought.  Earlier  he  had  stressed  the  littleness  of  man,  implying 
that  all  might  be  well  if  he  could  attain  the  stature  of  which 
he  was  capable,  for  was  not  man  a soul  made  in  the  image  of  God? 
In  Book  IV  all  this  is  thrown  open  to  doubt.  Man,  he  suggests, 
is  corrupt  beyond  redemption  and  nothing  can  serve  but  a new 
species,  born  without  original  sin  and  therefore  without  need  of 
that  salvation  which  seemed  so  unaccountably  withheld.  So  he 
constructs  a moral  utopia  of  rational  horses,  living  in  a society  of 
Arcadian  simplicity  which  looks  back  on  the  one  hand  to  the 
Golden  Age  of  primitive  tribal  communism  and  to  the  asceticism 
of  More’s  Utopia  where  happiness  is  reached  by  the  elimination  of 
all  superfluous  wants,  and  forw'ard  on  the  other  to  the  closely 
related  ‘noble  savage’  myth  of  Diderot  and  Rousseau  and  the 
philosophic  forerunners  of  the  French  Revolution. 

Swift  goes  indeed  far  beyond  them  by  returning  not  only  to  the 
noble  savage  but  to  a more  biologically  specialised  world.  The 
horse  is  nobler  than  man  because  he  is  less  complex.  He  has  few 
wants  and  has  attained  an  extremely  advanced  moral  and  philo- 
sophical superstructure  on  an  economic  basis  that  is  roughly  that 
of  the  Neolithic  Age.  The  State  barely  exists,  clothes  and  metals 
are  unknown,  the  unit  of  society  is  tlie  patriarchal  family.  The 
Houyhnhnms  show  neither  the  refinements  nor  the  vices  of  the 
civilisation  which  Swift  had  come  to  detest. 

In  other  respects  they  compare  badly  with  the  happy,  unin- 
hibited and  affectionate  savages  of,  for  example,  Diderot’s 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR  IO9 

Supplement  to  Bougainvilleas  Voyage.  In  shedding  human  vices 
and  follies  they  have  lost  also  human  warmth  and  passion: 
good  becomes  empty  of  meaning  to  beings  incapable  of  evil. 
They  marry,  beget  children,  are  educated  and  regulate  all  their 
social  relations  by  tlie  coldest  reason.  It  is  a world  which  we  can 
admire  from  a distance  but  in  which  only  Swift  would  care  to 
live. 

To  point  the  contrast  to  this  coldly  perfect  polity  of  horses,  men 
are  represented  by  the  Yahoos,  more  odious  and  disgusting  than 
any  other  animals  because  thev  excel  them  in  ennning  and,  with- 
out human  reason,  possess  all  the  vices  of  humanity.  To  a limited 
extent  the  Yahoos  stand  for  men  as  Swift  saw  them  in  his 
moments  of  utter  despair.  Yet,  as  Sir  Charl^-s  birth  has  shown  in 
his  brilliant  essay  The  Vohiical  Significance  of  Gulliver^ s Travels^ 
this  is  only  one  side  of  the  medal  We  must  never  forget  that 
Swift  wrote  in  devastated  Ireland,  and  we  have  seen  how  the 
specific  character  of  his  despair  aiose  from  the  total  contradiction 
between  his  vision  of  social  justice  and  the  existing:  relation  of 
social  forces.  Above  all,  he  Icspaircd  of  any  possibility  of  improv- 
ing the  lot  of  the  peasantry,  ot  remedying: 

“The  millions  of  oppressions  they  lie  under,  the  tyranny  of 
their  landlords,  the  ridiculous  zeal  of  their  priests  and  the 
general  misery  of  the  whole  nation.” 

Swift  feared  that  these  “millions  of  oppressions”  were  trans- 
forming the  Irish  into  a nation  of  '^"ahoos.  As  Firth  puts  it; 

“ ‘The  savage  old  Irish’  who  made  up  ‘the  poorer  sort  of  our 
natives’,  were  not  onlv  in  a position  similai  to  that  of  the 
Yahoos,  but  there  was  a. so  a certain  similarity  in  their  natures. 
If  nothing  v as  done  to  stop  the  prc'ce'^s  c f degeneration  they 
would  become  complete  brutes,  as  the  Yahoos  were  already. 
They  were,  so  to  speak,  Yahoos  in  the  making.” 

The  Yahoos,  then,  were  less  a picture  of  man  than  a warning 
of  what  Swift  feared.  He  i ' 'mtinuing  the  attack  on  colonialism 
begun  in  Book  III  by  pointing  out  what  he  regards  as  its  inevitable 
consequence.  What  he  did  not  see,  and  was  indeed  prevented  by 
his  whole  clas?  background  and  standpoint  from  seeing,  was  that 
these  same  peasants  were  already  beginning  their  long  and  bitter 
agrarian  struggle,  which  allied  to  the  struggle  for  national 
independence  which  Swift  had  helped  to  forward,  was  to  enable 


no 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


them  to  fescue  themselves  from  their  degradation.  The  Modest 
Proposal  was  not  in  the  end  to  prove  history’s  last  word  on  the 
Irish  question. 

Swift’s  misanthropy  has  become  almost  proverbial,  and  is 
deduced  mainly  from  the  Yahoos  and  A Modest  Proposal.  Yet  this 
view  can  only  be  maintained  by  a superficial  reading:  the  bitterness 
is  not  that  of  a man  with  a low  estimate  of  human  dignity  and  the 
value  of  human  happiness  but  of  one  who  found  his  high  estimate 
of  man’s  place  in  the  universe  p-^rpetually  contradicted  by  every- 
thing around  him.  The  victory  of  the  bourgeois  over  the  feudal 
order  was  it  is  true  socially  progressive,  but  bourgeois  progress 
has  always  been  achieved  at  a staggering  cost  in  human  suffering 
and  degradation.  Swift,  looking  back  to  an  idealised  past  and  for- 
ward to  a just  society  which  few  beside  him  cared  even  to  guess  at, 
saw  only  tlie  cost.  Defoe  saw  only  the  social  advance,  barely 
noticing  the  suffering  which  accompanied  it.  Together,  in  their 
two  complementary  utopias,  thev  depicted  the  glory  and  misery  of 
their  age.  Defoe’s  benevolence  is  that  of  the  victor  who  can  afford 
to  be  magnanimous.  Swift’s  misanthropy  is  that  of  the  represen- 
tative of  a defeated  class,  yet,  though  he  fought  against  bourgeois 
values  in  the  name  of  the  past,  the  very  fact  that  he  fought 
against  them  honestly  and  courageously  held  within  it  the  ground 
for  a new  standpoint  in  which  the  future  could  be  comprehended. 
That,  I believe,  is  why  we  honour  Swtft  while  we  can  only  respect 
Defoe. 


4.  Berimyo/i  and  Paltock 

For  reasons  already  indicated  utopian  literature  reached  its 
lowest  level  in  Hngland  during  the  eighteenth  century,  and  the 
successors  to  Kobinson  Crusoe  and  iruUwer's  Travels  do  not  call  for 
any  detailed  treatment.  Two  works,  however,  should  be  men- 
tioned: The  Memoirs  oj  Signor  Gaudentio  di  Tucca  by  Simon  Bering- 
ton  and  The  Uje  and  Adventures  of  Peter  Wilkins  by  Robert  Paltock. 

The  first,  a rather  academic  production,  once  attributed  for 
no  very  good  reason  to  Bishop  Berkeley,  was  published  in  1738. 
It  purports  to  be: 

^‘Takcn  from  his  Confession  and  Examination  before  the 
Fathers  of  the  Inquisition  at  Bologna  in  Italy.  Making  a dis- 
covery of  an  unknown  Country  in  the  midst  of  the  vast 
Deserts  of  Africa,  as  Ancient,  Populous,  and  Civilised  as  the 
Chinese.’* 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR 


HI 


It  may  well  reflect  early  reports  of  the  advanced  native  civilis- 
ations existing  in  the  Upper  Niger  region,  and,  in  so  far  as  the 
travel  tale  element  is  fairly  prominent,  it  may  be  regarded  as  being 
in  die  tradition  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  So  far  as  matter  is  concerned, 
however,  the  author  has  clearly  studied  earlier  utopian  writers, 
especially  More  and  CampancUa,  and  has  little  of  his  own  to  add  of 
any  value. 

The  Mezzorarrians,  as  these  people  call  themselves,  were  driven 
from  Kgypt  by  i barbarian  invasion,  and,  having  crossed  the 
Sahara,  settled  in  an  unknown  region  of  great  natural  fertility. 
This  point  is  especially  insisted  on  as  aifording  the  basis  of  a 
social  order  in  which  clctnents  of  primitive  and  modern  com- 
munism are  oddly  blended:  im  the  one  hand  their  society  is  simple 
and  tribal,  cn  the  other  it  is  made  clear  that  owing  to  their 
great  natural  resources,  their  cf'unmunism  is  based  on  abundance 
rather  than  scarcity.  This  is  the  most  otip,mal  italuTC  of  the 
utopia,  though  it  leads  inevitably  to  ce»“rain  contradictions, 
Berington  defends  his  system  very  much  iiwhe  style  of  More: 

“Since  every  one  of  thcni  is  employed  for  the  common  good 
more  than  for  themselves,  j)erhaps  Perst)ns  may  ap[)rchcnd 
that  this  gives  a f h(*ck  to  Industry,  not  having  that  spur  to 
private  Interest,  hoarding  up  riches  or  aggrandising  their 
Families,  as  is  to  be  found  in  other  Nations.  I was  apprehensive 
of  this  myscll,  when  i came  to  understand  their  Govcrnnient; 
but  so  far  from  it,  that  probably  there  is  not  such  an  Industrious 
Race  of  People  n the  Universe.” 

Almost  the  only  feature  which  seems  specially  characteristic 
of  the  eighteenth  century  ..  ihcir  reltgic)!!.  Thjy  arc  apparently 
Deists,  tolerant,  benevolent  and  eminently  rational. 

“Everything  they  do  is  a sort  of  Paradox  to  us,  for  they  are 
the  freest  and  yqt  the  strictest  People  in  the  World:  the  whole 
Nation  . . . being  more  M:"  an  Universal  Regular  College  or 
Community  [it  must  be  remembered  that  the  narrator  is  des- 
cribed as  an  Italian  Catholic]  than  anytliing  else.” 

• 

This  toleration  produces  a moment  of  rather  grim  humour 
when  Signor  Gaudentio  is  being  examined  by  the  Inquisition.  He 
says  that  the  Mezzorarrians — 


112 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


“Told  me  when  I came  to  be  better  acquainted  with  them, 
I should  find  they  were  not  so  inhuman  as  to  put  People  to 
Death  because  they  were  of  a different  Opinion  from  their  own.” 

The  Inquisitor  asks  sourly: 

“I  hope  you  don’t  think  it  unlawful  to  persecute,  or  even 
put  to  Death  obstinate  Hcreticks  who  would  destroy  the 
Religion  of  our  Forefathers  and  lead  othejs  into  the  same 
Damnation  with  themselves?” 

and  Gaudentio  very  hastily  disclaims  the  holding  of  any  such 
dangerous  opinion. 

The  Adventures  of  Peter  W'llkins^  who  discovers  a nation  of  flying 
Indians  in  the  South  Seas,  has  a little  of  the  fantastic  quality  of 
Gulliver* s ^Travels  on  a very  much  lower  level,  but  its  underlying 
character  is  far  more  clc^se  to  that  of  Kohinson  Crusoe,  Its  hybrid 
character  and  stiffly  mechanical  development  prevent  it  from 
coming  anywhere  near  either  of  its  predecessors  in  quality.  Peter 
Wilkins  is,  however,  like  Robinson  Crusoe,  very  much  the  typical 
bourgeois  hero  at  a rather  later  stage.  Written  in  175 1,  at  the  time 
when  the  Industrial  Revolution  was  just  taking  shape,  the  book 
shows  a far  greater  preoccupation  with  the  details  of  production 
tcchniqtie  than  any  previous  utopian  romance. 

After  a scries  of  adventures  very  much  in  the  Crusoe  style, 
including  an  escape  from  Africa  and  a period  alone  on  a desert 
island,  Peter  NX  ilkins  falls  in  with  the  Flying  Indians.  They  have  a 
stone  age  culture,  with  ncK  knowledge  of  letters,  metal  or  the 
measurement  of  time,  yet  most  inconsistently,  a fully  developed 
feudal  social  organisation  and  a grandiose  architecture.  Wilkins 
instantly  impresses  them  with  liis  “superior  knowledge”  and 
cleverness.  This  does  not  consist  in  any  personal  quality  that  he 
possesses:  he  is  in  fact  an  exceptionally  stupid  young  man  whose 
principal  talent  seems  to  be  the  capacity  to  father  an  immense 
family  in  record  time,  llis  superiority  is  entirely  that  of  the 
bourgeois  man  iq  a feudal  society,  wliich  more  than  compensates 
for  his  inability  to  fly. 

At  his  first  meeting  he  displays  his  knowledge  of  gunpowder 
and  firearms:  it  will  be  seen  that  he  has  none  of  Swift’s  scruples 
and  is,  indeed,  as  morally  obtuse  as  an  American  politician 
brandishing  an  atom  bomb.  By  this  and  similar  demonstrations 
he  quickly  gains  a complete  ascendancy  which  he  uses  to  inaugu- 


REASON  IN  DESPAIR  IT5 

rate  a full-blown  bourgeois  revolution  from  within.  He  intro- 
duces writing,  the  metallurgical  arts,  all  sorts  of  mechanical 
techniques.  Slavery  and  serfdom  arc  abolished  and  replaced  by 
a system  of ‘free’  wage  labour  in  which  the  former  feudal  grandees 
find  themsches  employing  their  former  slaves  as  producers  (^f 
commodities.  An  era  of  universal  plenty  and  prosperity  for  all 
is  promised: 

“Sir,”  says  I,  “the  man  who  has  nothing  to  hope  loses  the 
use  of  one  of  his  faculties,  and  if]  guess  right,  and  you  live  ten 
years  longer,  you  shall  see  this  State  as  much  altered  as  the 
difference  between  a lask  (slave)  and  the  tree  he  feeds  on.  You 
shall  all  be  possessed  of  that  w'iiieh  will  bring  you  fruits  from 
the  woods  without  a lask  to  fetch  it.  fhor-e  who  were  before 
your  slaves  shall  take  it  as  an  liononr  to  be  employed  by  you, 
and  at  tlu  same  time  shall  employ  otJieis  depc«^dent  on  them, 
so  as  the  great  and  small  shall  he  under  miUual  obligations  to 
each  other,  and  both  to  the  truly  indust^rious  artificer:  and  yet 
every  one  content  only  with  what  he  merits.” 

“Dear  son,”  sa;vS  my  fuher  [fathci-in-law  j,  “those  will  be 
glorious  da)'s  indeed!” 

Glorious  days  indeed!  hy  its  very  simplicity  this  book  marks 
a turning  point.  It  is  both  ihe  first  utopia  in  which  we  can  see  tlic 
forces  of  change  at  work  and  the  last  which  discovers  in  tlie  bour- 
geois order  the  road  to  Utopia.  At  the  time  of  its  composition  the 
Bourgeois  Revolution  had  prepared  the  way  ttir  large  scale  capital- 
ist production,  wnich  in  turn  created  a new  class  and  contra- 
dictions which  could  only  be  resolved  by  tlic  supercession  oz 
bourgeois  society.  All  1.  mrc  utopias  reflect,  in  one  way  or 
anotlicr,  the  contradiction  and  conflict  within  die  new  st)ciety. 


CHAPTER  V 


REASON  IN  REVOLT 


I have  lived  to  see  thiily  millions  of  people  indignant  and  resolute,  spurning  at 
slavery  and  dem  inding  liberty  with  an  irresistible  voice,  their  king  led  in  triumph 
and  an  arbitrary  monarch  surrendering  himself  to  his  subjeefs  And  now  methmks 
I see  the  ardour  of  liberty  catching  and  spreading,  a general  amendment  beginning 
in  human  aftiirs  the  dominion  ot  kings  changed  for  the  dominion  of  laws,  and  the 
dominion  of  priests  giving  wa>  to  the  domuiion  of  reason  and  science 

Dr  Price  A Sermon  preached  before  the  Society  for 
C onimemorating  the  Revolution  in  Great  Britain,  1789 

Jn  Fngland  the  maelimcs  are  like  men  and  the  men  hi  e machines 

Hr  iNE 


I.  'Political Justice 

Between  Dr.  Pncc\  sermon  and  Heine’s  observation  lies 
a decisne  phase  in  the  development  of  eapitalism  and  a whole 
world  of  extravagant  hopes  and  correspondingly  unbounded 
despairs  Ihe  Irench  Revolution  uas  to  free  men  from  politieal 
tyranny  and  usher  in  an  age  when  the  exercise  ot  reason  would 
open  the  road  to  Utopia  The  machine  was  to  increase  national 
prosperity  boundlessly  and  free  men  from  the  curse  laid  upon 
Adam  at  the  Fall,  from  the  iron  law  that  decreed  that  however 
long  and  hard  they  worked  the}  could  produce  little  more  than 
was  needed  to  keep  them  alive  In  1789  the  burden  seemed  about 
to  be  lifted  from  the  shoulder  and  it  was  felt  that  nothing  was 
required  e^f  man  but  to  straighten  his  back  and  march  straight  into 
an  earthly  paradise. 

Such  expectations  were  not  new,  least  of  all  in  England.  We 
have  already  seen  something  like  them  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
when  the  Fnghsh  Revolution  seemed  to  be  a prehminary  to  the 
Millennium,^  but  there  were  important  new  feature*^  m 1789 
which  ha\e  to  be  taken  into  account.  The  English  Revolution  in 
the  seventeenth  century  was  an  isolated  event:  nothing  at  all 
comparable  had  happened  elsewhere  except  in  th^  Netherlands, 
nor  was  there  any  apparent  likelihood  of  its  repetition  elsewhere.  In 
Europe  it  was  nowhere  understood  nor  regarded  as  an  example  to 


1 Sec  p 67 


REASON  IN  REVOLT 


be  followed.  But  the  French  Revolution  did  rouse  Europe: 
France  was  the  acknowledged  cultural  leader,  French  literature 
an  unrivalled  model,  and  the  philosophers  of  the  enlightenment, 
who  prepared  the  ground  for  the  Revolution,  had  been  read  and 
admired  all  over  the  Continent.  Feudal  reaction  was  felt  to  be 
outmoded  and  a growing  bourgeoisie  was  eager  to  follow  the 
French  example.  It  was  only  in  England,  where  the  dominant 
section  of  the  bourgeoisie,  having  accomplished  their  revolution, 
had  come  to  terms  with  a now  largely  bourgeois  aristocracy,  that 
the  Revolution  was  unwelcome.  In  England  a further  revolution 
could  only  be  of  a dangerously  popular  character  which  would 
threaten  the  existing  coinj^romisc.  Here,  too,  the  lesson  of  the 
Commonwealth  was  not  quite  forgotten,  and  Lei^e/ler  was  in 
current  use  as  a synonym  for  Ra^ra/  as  late  as  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century  while  Dcmociat  was  a title  only  adopted  by 
the  lower  orders.  On  the  Continent,  then,  the  Revolution  was 
welcomed  by  all  sections  of  the  middle  and  lower  classes,  in 
England  only  by  those  who  thought  the  w'ork  of  the  seventeenth 
century  was  still  incomplcie.  But  everywhere  it  was  recognised  as 
an  event  of  not  merely  French  but  of  international  significance. 

It  came,  too,  and  indeed  would  not  have  Ixcu  possible  other- 
wise, after  a long  period  o*  expansion.  The  main  outlines  of  the 
world  were  now  securely  mapped  and  a series  of  colonial  wars  had 
established  French,  British,  Spanish  and  Dutch  colonial  empires 
on  a world  scale.  In  America  tlie  revolt  of  the  colonists  had  just 
ended  by  the  establishment  in  the  Unites  States  of  the  first  bour- 
geois republic.  Alongside  the  growth  of  world  trade  and  explor- 
ation was  a correspondinir  growth  of  the  productive  forces,  most 
marked  in  England,  wh  re,  by  1789,  what  wc  now  call  the 
Industrial  Rt  volution  was  already  making  rapid  headway,  but 
marked  enough  elsewhere  for  the  bourgeoisie  to  be  acquiring 
a sense  of  strength  frustrated  by  the  bonds  of  a degenerate  feudal- 
ism. Economic  grievances  of  a kind  which,  though  present, 
remained  in  the  background  of  the  English  Revolution,  or  only 
came  to  the  front  at  a later  . ♦ were  stressed  from  the  beginning 
in  the  Cabers  de  DolianceSy  the  statements  of  demands  which 
preceded  the  meeting  of  the  States  General. 

For  these  and  other  reasons  the  French  Revidution  was  more 
avowedly  pdUlical,  more  unmistakably  a class  struggle,  than 
any  that  had  gone  before.  The  Revolution  in  England  had  worn  a 
mask  of  religion:  in  Holland  and  America  there  was  the  element  of 


Il6  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

national  liberation  to  confuse  both  contemporaries  and  the  his- 
torian. So  persistent  and  so  convenient  has  been  this  fog  that  it 
is  only  now  beginning  to  clear  and  the  Marxist  view  that  all  these 
were  bourgeois  revolutions  to  win  acceptance.  In  the  case  of 
France  such  confusion  is  less  possible.  The  French  Revolution 
appeared  from  the  start  as  a struggle  of  the  bourgeoisie,  with  the 
peasants  and  the  unpropertied  masses  of  the  towns  as  their  allies, 
against  a feudal  regime.  It  was  the  spectre  of  the  class  struggle  that 
terrified  all  sections  of  the  propertied  in  England.  The  words 
^TJberty,  F^quality,  I’ratcrnity’  meant  quite  different  things  to 
those  who  used  and  to  those  who  heard  them.  For  the  first. 
Equality  meant  the  abolition  of  those  feudal  restrictions  which 
gave  special  privileges  to  a few,  and  Liberty  the  abolition  of  every- 
thing which  hindered  the  tree  accumulation  of  c.ipital;  for  the 
latter,  they  meant  security  and  equality  of  condition.  The  time 
quickly  came  when  they  demanded  that  their  interpretation  should 
prevail. 

If  the  hopes  and  speculations  of  the  time  can  be  summed  up  in 
a single  word  that  word  is  Kelson,  Tf>  the  bar  of  Reason  every- 
thing was  brought:  kingship,  religion,  lavis,  customs  and  beliefs  — 
whate\cr  could  not  account  rationally  for  itself  was  unhesitatingly 
condemned.  In  Reason  was  the  key  to  Utopia,  for  if  only  the  ideal 
society  could  be  discovered  and  clearly  demonstrated  to  be 
reascmable  no-one  could  scriousl)  oppose  it.  “Truth”,  wrote 
Blake,  “can  never  be  told  so  as  to  be  understood,  and  not  be 
believ’d.”  A standpoint  that  150  years  earlier  had  been  peculiar 
to  a few  individuals  like  f larthb  now  became  the  universal  dogma. 
That  Reason  itself  had  to  be  examined,  that  while,  for  example, 
it  has  seemed  reasonable  to  the  capitalist  that  all  men  shf)uld  be 
free  to  exploit  or  be  exploited,  this  was  by  no  means  so  clear  to  the 
worker,  was  something  .^till  to  be  understood.  It  has  taken  us 
another  1 50  years  to  learn  that  Reason  itself  has  a class  basis. 

At  this  point  all  that  seemed  necessary  was  to  sweep  away 
certain  negative  restraints  —monarchy,  priestcraft,  ignorance — 
by  which  men  were  coerced  or  deluded  into  denying  Reason, 
Once  this  was  done  the  rest  followed  easily.  The  doctrine  of 
human  pcrfectability  might  be  absurd  enough  in  some  of  the 
forms  it  took,  yet  it  contained  the  fundamental  truth  that  human 
nature  is  not  something  absolute  and  unchanging  but  is  itself  the 
product  of  human  life  and  the  actual  conditions  under  which  that 
life  is  carried  on.  An  unending  prospect  opened  out,  and  here. 


RliASON  IN  REVOLT 


IT? 


I think’,  is  the  new  feature  that  marks  the  utopian  speculation  of 
this  age.  liarlicr  utopias  conceived  a perfect  commonwealth 
finished  in  all  its  parts  and  thcrefi^rc  eternally  fixed.  Now, 
progress  was  not  merely  the  road  to  Utoj-jia,  ii  existed  within 
Utopia,  which,  instead  of  having  a geography,  now  has  a liistory 
and  a climate.  It  is  not  surprising  that  the  two  great  utopian 
writers  of  tlic  age  are  two  of  its  greatest  poets,  Blake  and  Shelley. 

First,  however,  something  must  be  said  about  an  extremely 
prosaic  figure,  illiam  God  win,  whose  principal  work,. -'1//  Efiquiry 
Concerning  Political  Justice  though  nor  strictly  a utopia  in  the 
sense  in  which  1 have  defined  it  for  the  purpose  t)f  (his  book, 
cannot  be  j'jassed  over.  Not  only  vas  its  iniluence  immense,  but 
it  does  concentrate  all  the  typical  idi'as  of  the  time  into  a single 
work  permeated  with  utopian  feeling.  So  representative  was  it 
that  for  years  after  its  j'nibh cation  the  {>hrase  t^'e  AhJeni  Philosophy 
was  always  taken  as  referring  to  Godwin  and  liis  tollowers. 

Undoubtedly  the  French  RcM'lution  *-upp!iccl  the  impetus  for 
Godwin’s  thought,  yet  he  disliked  and  distrusted  nfi  rc'Vtiludons, 
pre’ferring  to  rely  a ^agl’ely  fi)rimilited  desKe  for  change, 
which,  he  supposed,  woukl  be  proeluced  by  the  propagation  ot 
his  ideas.  J lere  we  encounter  tJ'c  basic  contradiction:  man  is 
moulded  by  his  emiionment,  that  is,  mainlv,  by  the  society  in 
which  he  lives.  But  society  can  only  be  changed  by  man,  and  how 
is  tills  une'hanged  m:ni  to  ehange  scH'icty  or  e\en  to  imagine  or 
desire  such  a change?  It  is  one  t/f  those  familiar  efiicken  and  egg 
paradoxes  wdiieh  are  in  fact  insoluble^  in  terms  of  mcdianical 
materialism.  Only  when  seen  dialectically  is  the  contrailietion 
resolved,  when  we  look  not  at  man  as  an  individual  in  isolation 
but  at  man  as  a member  o \ class,  and  see  that  it  is  in  the  conflict 
of  classes  that  both  man  and  S(.eiety  arc  Lratisfornicd.  I'his 
Godwin  never  understood,  and  his  thought  is  in  consequence 
academic  and  harmless.  ^J'his  no  doubt  is  why  he  was  never 
interfered  with  during  the  wdiolc  period  of  the  anti-Jacobin 
terror.  There  is  much  in  his  woriv  that  is  courageous  and  ckar- 
headcil,  but  the  total  cffcci  i icgativc. 

Just  as  he  did  not  believe  in  rev(flution  as  a means  of  reaching 
Utopia,  he  saw  Utopia  itself  mainly  as  an  absence  of  tlie  things  he 
disliked.  Government  was  to  be  reduced  to  a minimum,  society 
to  consist  of  A loose  federation  c^f  semi- autonomous  communes. 
This  was  indeed  a feature  of  many  of  the  utopian  writers  of  this 
and  the  succeeding  period.  Owen’s  parallelograms,  Fourier’s 


Il8  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

phalanxes  and  Spence’s  parishes  all  illustrate  the  tendency,  which 
can  even  be  traced  back  to  Winstanley  the  Digger.  All  these 
utopias  spring  in  some  part  from  the  disillusion  of  the  masses  at 
the  progress  and  outcome  of  the  bourgeois  revolution,  and  one 
of  the  features  of  that  revolution  is  the  expropriation  of  the 
peasantry  and  the  destruction  of  the  feudal  village  commune. 
The  parish  or  commune  ceases  to  be  the  frame  inside  which  the 
producer  functions:  he  is  herded  into  towns  and  factories,  away 
from  his  ‘‘knowen  and  accustomed  houses”.  The  first  effects  of  the 
division  of  labour  arc  hideously  apparent.  So  the  utopian  writers 
voice  the  dream  of  a village  commune  restored  on  a higher 
plane,  without  the  presence  of  a frequently  tyrannical  feudal 
master,  and  making  use  of  the  new  technical  and  scientific 
knowledge  to  secure  a standard  of  living  impossible  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  Closely  connected  with  this  is  the  tendency,  new  at  this 
time,  with  the  significant  exception  of  the  Diggers,  to  transfer 
utopian  fantasy  into  brick  and  mortar  utopian  colonies. 

, Within  the  parisli,  Godwin  argued,  little  more  would  be 
needed  than  the  force  of  public  opinion  which  would  condemn  all 
anti-social  acts  as  offences  against  reason.  If  wars  were  unavoid- 
able the  armed  nation  would  make  a professional  army  unneces- 
sary: here  he  is  in  line  wn‘th  all  the  radical  opinion  of  the  time. 
Freedom  meant  only  the  absence  of  any  restraint  upon  the 
individual,  the  assumption  being  that  the  individual  would  always 
wish  to  do  what  was  reasonable  and  therefore  in  the  public 
interest.  This  gentTal  principle  lies  behind  Godwin’s  very  sketchy 
economic  proposals.  All  men  ought  to  be  equal,  none  ought  to 
enjoy  a superfluity  while  others  were  in  want.  Yet  equally  it  is  an 
offence  against  the  idea  of  liberty  to  enforce  equality  or  to  deprive 
anyone  of  his  property.  Property  must  remain  sacred  in  order  that 
men  may  exercise  reason  in  disposing  of  it.  That  there  is  a differ- 
ence in  kind  between  the  wealth  a man  himself  creates  and  that 
which  he  acquires  by  exploiting  the  labour  of  others  is  outside 
Godwin’s  conception:  it  is  reason  and  virtue  which  interest  him, 
not  the  mode  of  production. 

Here  his  philosophic  anarchism  is  seen  at  its  wildest:  ‘*Every- 
thing  understood  by  the  term  co-operation  is  in  some  sense  an 
evil,”  because  all  co-operation  means  a certain  surrender  of 
individual  freedom.  Godwin  suggested  that  it  might  become 
unnecessary  by  the  increased  use  of  machinery,  but  how  the 
production  and  employment  of  vast  quantities  of  complicated 


REASON  IN  REVOLT  II9 

machirifery  was  possible  without  co-operation  is  never  explained. 

For  Godwin  and  for  those  who  based  their  ideas  upon  his 
philosophy,  there  had  to  be  something  of  the  miracle  about 
change,  however  fervently  they  might  deny  the  possibility  of  the 
miraculous.  This  is  true  above  ^1  of  Godwin’s  son-in-law,  Shelley, 
whose  whole  writings  with  their  ‘^Kinglcss  continents  sinless  as 
Eden”  are  utopian  from  beginning  to  end.  He,  too,  Xvas  con- 
fronted by  this  contradiction  between  man  and  enviionmcnt 
and  he  solved  it  ty  transferring  it  to  a suixirhuman  plane.  Man’s 
struggles  and  conflicts  were  the  reflection  on  earth  of  a cosmic 
struggle  between  the  principles  of  Good  and  Evil,  in  which  Evil 
had  so  far  had  the  better  of  things  but  in  which  CJood  would 
ultimately  triumph.  This  Manichean  philosophy  can  become  an 
expression  of  negation  and  despair  but  it  is  not  tiecessarily  so. 
For  it  does  at  least  recognise  the  conflict,  and  it  may,  as  it  did  with 
Shelley,  admit  the  possibility  of  human  co-operation  with  one 
side  or  the  other.  For  him  the  great  question,  unresolved  at  the 
time  of  his  death,  was  of  the  torin  of  this  c(Voperation.  Generally, 
as  in  Vrometheus  iJ»hou//d  or  The  Masqm  oj  Ajiarchy^  man’s  part 
seems  to  be  a heroic  endurance  of  evil  in  the  course  of  winch 
both  man  and  the  universe  are  transformed. 

“To  suffer  v/ocs  which  Hope  thinks  infinite; 

To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night; 

To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipotent; 

To  love  and  bear;  to  hope  till  Hope  creates 
From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates 
Neither  to  cliange,  nor  falter,  nor  repent; 

This,  like  thy  glorv.  Titan!  is  to  be 

Good,  great  and  loyous,  beautiful  and  free; 

This  IS  alone  life,  Joy,  l:,mpirc  and  Victory!” 

By  this  endurance  man  can  free  himself  fre^m  the 

“Sceptres,  tiaras,  swords,  and  chains,  and  tomes 
Of  reasoned  wrong.” 

To  reach  Utopia  in  which 

“The  loathsome  mask  has  fallen,  the  man  remains 
Sceptreless,  free,  uncircumscribcd,  but  iVian 
Equal/  unclassed,  tribeless,  and  nationless, 

Exempt  from  awe,  worship,  degree,  the  king 
Over  himself;  just,  gentle,  wise.” 


120 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


Elsewhere  there  are  signs  that  Shelley  was  moving  towards  a 
more  positive  attitude:  if  he  had  lived  longer  we  cannot  doubt  that 
he  would  have  identified  himself  more  closely  with  the  actual 
struggles  then  developing.  There  is  one  other  aspect  of  Vrometheus 
Unbound  which  demands  comment  here.  The  ^crime’  of  Pro- 
metheus was  that  of  brealdng  the  age-long  impasse  of  primitive 
communism  by  introducing  changes  into  the  mode  of  production. 
Primitive  communism  might  be,  as  the  ancient  myths  presented  it, 
a Golden  Age,  but  it  had  to  be  left  behind  bclorc  any  progress 
was  possible.  What  Prometheus  did  was  to  place  in  man’s  hands 
a choice,  the  possibility  of  advance  from  the  realm  of  necessity 
to  that  of  freedom.  Here  is  at  least  the  germ  of  a dialectic  apprcjach 
to  history.  Like  most  of  his  generation  Shelley  had  no  doubts  as  to 
the  value  of  science  or  ti.achincry:  such  doubts  were  still  confined 
to  those  who  suffered  from  their  effects. 

Another  method  of  escape  from  the  Godwinian  dilemma  was 
that  considered  by  Coleridge  and  Southey.  Suppose  that  a new 
environment  could  be  created  artificially  on  a small  scale,  in  which 
a few  individuals  might  be  transformed,  could  not  these  in  turn 
react  upon  the  world  at  large  and  so  effect,  in  time,  a universal 
change?  Thus  was  born  the  scheme  for  a Pantisocracy,  the  first, 
perhaps,  of  all  the  attempts  to  realise  Utopia  as  a mcKlcl  common- 
wealth. America,  where  a re\oiution  had  )ust  been  successful,  was 
then  a magnet  for  all  radicals,  a land  of  freedom  and  justice 
whose  defects  (which  Cobbett  and  Paine  were  to  discover)  wxrc 
hardl}  visible  to  the  eje  c;f  faith  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic. 
Here  was  land  tor  the  taking,  and  no  kings,  j^riests  or  feudal  lords 
to  prevent  the  attainment  of  perfection.  So  the  Pantisocrats 
planned  their  settlement  on  the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna  and 
Southey  wrote  to  his  brother  in  1794: 

‘^\Ve  preached  Pantisocracy  and  Asphctcrism  everywhere. 
These,  Tom,  are  two  new  words,  the  first  signifying  the 
equal  government  of  all,  and  the  other  the  generalisation  of 
indh  idual  property.” 

The  scheme  foundered,  partly  because  of  Southey’s  already 
ingrained  tendency  to  rat,  but  mainly  for  the  reason  which  has 
made  all  such  “pocket  editions  of  the  New  JcruGalem”  at  the 
worst  fiascos  and  at  the  best  curiosities.  Before  such  a community 
could  be  established  a considerable  amount  of  capital  had  to  be 
collected—  and  the  owners  of  capital  have  seldom  been  interested 


REASON  IN  REVOLT 


111 


in  Utopia.  Utopian  colonies  have  usually  been  abortive  because 
the  necessary  capital  could  not  be  found  or  have  failed  to  prosper 
because  they  have  had  to  start  with  a capital  hopelessly  inadequate. 
In  tnis  case,  the  modest  proposed  capital  of  £125  a head  turned 
out  to  be  quite  unprocurable. 

In  reality,  the  scheme  was  an  attempt  to  avoid  rather  than  to 
solve  the  dilemma.  Pantisocracy,  like  all  attempts  to  found  a 
model  commonwealth,  was  larircly  the  result  of  an  impalsc  of 
flight,  not  only  from  immediate  repression,  but  from  the  need  to 
fight  in  the  world  as  it  is  and  to  transform  it.  There  is  always  an 
clement  of  self-deceit  in  the  belief  that  eventually  the  uti>pians 
will  return  to  transform  the  world  from  the  outside.  The  decision 
to  retreat  to  the  Susquehanna  was  the  first  step  on  the  road  that 
ended  for  Coleridge  in  a morass  of  admittedly  excellent  table  talk 
andfor  Southey  with  the  Poet  Laurcateship  and  a place  on  the  staff 
of  the  Qiiarterly  Keviov, 

lake  so  many  radical  writers  o^this  time  Coleridge  shared  with 
Blake  the  heritage  of  dissenting  humanisnu  The  great  difference 
between  tlicm  was  that  Blake,  unlike  CoIt‘ridge,  was  apprenticed 
to  a manual  trade  and  followed  it  all  liis  life.  It  is  this  that  gives 
his  t]v>ught  an  actuality  unusual  m J English  pf)elry.  In  the  so- 
called  Prophetic  Bc>oks,  which,  as  will  be  seen,  arc  utopian  from 
end  to  end,  symbol  is  piled  upon  symbol,  mythical  figures  divide 
and  unite  till  tlie  mind  refuses  to  follow  their  mutations,  but  at 
their  wildest  these  Books  have  an  earthincss  which  derives  from 
the  actual  conditions  (»f  lite  in  Blake’s  time.  And  the  man  who, 
having  spent  a lifetime  compiling  a vast  scries  of  such  Prophetic 
Books  could  write: 

“Pre^phets  in  the  m<  dern  sense  (»f  the  word  have  never 
existed.  . . . Fa  cry  honest  man  is  a Prophet;  he  utters  his 
cjpinion  both  of  juivatc  & public  matters.  Thus*  If  you  go  on 
So,  the  result  is  So.  lie  never  says,  such  a thing  will  happen, 
let  you  do  what  you  will’’ 

was  clearly  no  crazy  vision'^  tr, 

Blake’s  father,  a Swedenborgian  hosier  of  London,  apprenticed 
his  son  to  a leading  engraver,  and  Blake  is  one  of  the  great 
Fnglish  masters  of  the*  craft  of  engraving  on  metal.  When  the 
French  Revolution  broke  out  he  was  just  thirty  but  had  not  yet 
written  any  of  his  important  poems.  The  Revolution  influenced 
him  profoundly.  In  1789  appeared  the  first  of  a series  of  rhapsocliq 


J22 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


poems  with  such  titles  as  Tie  French  'Rjevolution^  A Song  of  Ubertj^ 
Visions  of  the  Daughters  of  Albion^  America  and  Europe.  In  all 
these,  though  they  are  written  in  Blake’s  peculiar  symbolic 
manner,  the  basic  ideas  are  those  of  the  radical  circle  in  which  he 
moved,  a circle  in  which  Paine  rather  than  Godwin  was  the 
dominating  influence.  There  is  a simple  delight  in  the  overthrow 
of  tyranny  and  a belief  in  the  opening  of  a new  age  for  France  and 
the  world,  there  is  also,  especially  in  The  Marriage  of  Heaven  and 
Hell^  a dialectic  uni'que  at  this  date. 

Soon,  however,  three  things  happened.  First,  there  was  the 
bitter  repression  that  broke  up  the  London  Corresponding 
Society,  drove  Paine  into  exile  and  made  the  open  expression  of 
radical  views  near  to  impossible  for  twenty  years.  C)n  the  title 
page  of  a book  attacking  Paine,  Blake  wrote: 

**To  defend  the  Bible  in  this  year  of  1798  would  cost  a man 
his  life.  The  Beast  and  the  Whore  rule  without  control.” 

In  this  atmosphere  of  repression  and  censorship  Blake  went 
underground,  his  writing  becoming  progressively  vaguer,  his 
myths  continually  more  involved. 

But  it  was  not  only  the  censorship  which  oppressed  him.  The 
French  Revolution  followed  its  course,  with  the  big  bourgeoisie 
more  and  more  firmly  in  control  behind  a military  dictatorship. 
After  Thermidor  the  Republic  degenerated  into  the  Directory,  the* 
Directory  into  the  Empire.  It  was  no  longer  ]:)ossible  to  see  the 
clear  issue  between  freedom  and  tyranny,  the  bright  hopes  of 
1789  were  evidently  not  being  fulfilled.  Blake,  like  many  more, 
turned  away  from  politics  in  the  narrow  sense,  not  losing  faith  but 
seeing  that  the  struggle  was  of  a diffcient  and  far  more  compli- 
cated character  than  he  had  once  supposed.  So,  in  1809,  he  writes: 

am  really  sorry  to  see  my  Countrymen  trouble  themselves 
about  politics.  . . . Princes  appear  to  me  to  be  fools.  Houses  of 
Commons  & Houses  of  Lords  appear  to  me  to  be  fools;  they 
seem  to  me  to  be  something  Else  besides  Human  life.” 

The  third  thing  was  happening  in  England.  Here,  under  the 
stimulus  of  war,  capitalism  was  advancing  at  an  unprecedented 
pace.  The  last  peasantry  were  being  expropriated  i)y  the  Enclo- 
sures, the  long  death  of  the  hand  workers  was  beginning,  every- 
where sprang  up  the  Satanic  Mills.  Oppression  was  changing 
its  face,  and  Blake  was  one  of  the  first  to  recognise  a new  enemy. 


REASON  IN  REVOLT 


123 

Paraphrasing  Milton  he  might  have  said  that  new  capitalist  was 
but  old  baron  writ  large.  And  the  priest  of  the  old  school,  preach- 
ing hell  fire  was  but  a child  to  Parson  Malthus,  the  bastard  science 
of  whose  ^principle  of  population^  seemed  to  doom  the  vast 
majority  of  the  human  race  to  perpetual  and  perpetually  increasing 
misery.  It  is  the  sense  of  these  new  events  that  makes  Blake^s 
later  poetry  unique. 

First,  he  turned  his  dialectic  upon  the  mechanical  matciialism 
which  he  recognised  as  the  doctrine  of  capitalism  in  this  phase. 
Godwin,  like  most  other  people,  still  saw  and  thought  in  terms  of 
the  sovereign  individual,  without  tics  and  without  environment, 
a view  which  is  the  social  counterpart  of  (Eighteenth  century 
mechanical  atomism.  Blake  hated  and  attacked  tliis  atomism  for 
exactly  the  same  reason  as  he  attacked  the  fashic^nable  engravers 
who  reduced  everything  to  “Unorganised  Blots  and  Blurs”,  to 
“dots  and  lo^^enges”,  and  himself  insisted  on  the  primacy  of  line. 
In  defending  line  Blake  was  impiicitlv  defending  the  belief  that 
the  part  cannot  exist  except  in  relation  to  the' whole,  the  individual 
except  in  relation  to  the  cUss  of  which  he  is  a member.  J 

It  is  in  this  context  that  Blake’s  attitude  to  Ixicke,  Newton  and 
Voltaire,  to  all  the  thinkers  of  the  enlightenment,  must  be  under- 
stood. He  condemned  them  not  because  they  were  rational  but 
because  they  were  mechanical,  yet  he  saw  in  their  mechanical 
materialism  somclhing  which,  while  it  was  being  used  to  enslave 
humanity,  had  within  itseli  also  a potentially  liberating  force: 

“Mock  on,  Mock  on  Voltaire,  Rousseau: 

Mock  on.  Mock  on:  ’tis  all  m vain! 

You  throw  the  sand  against  the  wind. 

And  the  wind  blows  it  back  again. 

“And  every  sand  becomes  a Gem 
Reflected  in  the  beams  divine; 

Blown  back  they  blind  the  mocking  Piyc, 

But  still  in  Israel’s  paths  they  shine. 

“The  Atoms  ot  Democritus 
And  Newton’s  Particles  of  light 
Arc  sands  upon  the  Red  sea  shore, 

VC^hcre  Israel’s  tents  do  shine  so  bright.” 

1 Compare  Morris:  “Remember  always,  form  before  colour  and  outline,  silhouette 
before  modelling,  not  because  these  are  <»f  less  importance,  but  because  they  can’t 
be  right  if  the  first  are  wrong.” 


124  the  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

Satanic  wheels,  man  destroying  Jerusalem  and  building 
Babylon — this  for  Blake  is  the  fruit  of  reason  uncontrolled,  the 
reason  which  placed  laisse^faire  upon  its  altar  and  proclaimed  the 
right  of  every  (rich)  man  to  do  what  he  would  with  his  own. 
Jerusalem,  the  dominating  symbol  of  all  the  later  Prophetic  Books 
is  Blake’s  Utopia.  Albion-  -England  or  the  world  or  man  himself 
— ^is  in  a state  of  perpetual  transformation:  corresponding  to  every 
part  of  it  there  is  a utopian  reality: 

“The  fields  from  Islmgton  to  Marylcbone, 

To  Primrose  Hill  and  Saint  John’s  W(X)d, 

’W  ere  builded  over  with  pillars  of  gold. 

And  there  Jerusalem’s  pillars  stood.” 

Albion  couldhccomc  Jerusalem,  but  it  could  also  become  Babylon, 
the  wilderness  of  squalor  and  exploitation  which  he  saw  the 
rulers  of  England  creating  around  him.  Man  had  to  choose  what 
he  would  create,  and  so  llie  world  of  these  Prophetic  Books  is  not 
only  a world  of  continual  building  but  a world  of  continual  war. 

Thus  it  is  obviously  impossible  to  give  the  kind  of  picture  of 
Blake’s  Utopia  that  can  be  given  of  More’s  or  Harrington’s.  Tt  is 
not  an  island  to  be  discovered  or  a kingdom  to  be  given  laws,  but 
a city — ^Jerusalem  or  Golgon(>o^a — to  be  built.  And,  unlike 
previous  Utopias,  this  is  not  established  for  ever  after  a di\ine  or 
human  pattern  of  peifection.  Each  building  becomes  the  starting 
point  for  a new  fall  and  division  and  the  foundation  of  a new  city. 
Because  Blake  is  incapable  of  thinking  otherwise  than  dialectically, 
history,  and  therefore  Utopia,  can  never  come  to  a conclusion. 

So,  for  the  first  time,  wc  have  a Utopia  reached  not  by  abstract 
speculation  but  by  the  transformation  through  struggle  of  what 
actually  exists.  This  is  shown  most  clear!)  in  the  complex  inter- 
action of  Blake’s  symbolic  figures.  The  building  of  Jerusalem, 
the  confounding  of  Babylon,  is  the  outcome  of  the  eternal  yet  ever 
sliifting  conflict  between  Urizen- Jehovah,  the  creator  and 
oppressor,  the  god  of  things  as  they  arc,  and  Ore,  a Promethean 
figure,  redeemer  and  regenerator,  who  elsewhere  stands  for  fire 
and  for  revolutionary  terror.  Blake  secs  the  conflict  as  fought 
simultaneously  on  a number  of  planes,  as  a conflict  of  cosmic 
forces,  but  no  less  as  a conflict  in  society  and  in  the  minds  of  men. 
Yet  this  is  not  a mechanical  clash  of  right  and  wrong.  It  is  a 
dialectical  interpenetration,  a conflict  of  iron  (Urizen  represents 
the  ‘iron  law  of  wages’,  Malthus’  ‘principle  of  population,’  the 


REASON  IN  REVOLT  ISJ 

new  ir6n  machinery  of  factory  production)  and  fire.  Ore  is 
consumer  as  well  as  liberator,  and  Los,  another  Promethean  fire 
symbol,  stands  elsewhere  for  metallurgy,  the  new  transforming 
technique  of  the  age,  in  which  fire  and  iron  are  creatively  brought 
together.  Jerusalem  is  to  be  the  outcome  of  Ore’s  struggle,  but 
precisely  of  Ore’s  struggle  to  transform  Urizen,  who  represents 
the  material  world  as  well  as  its  creator:  iron  is  none  the  less  iron 
because  it  becomes  molten. 

And  yet,  for  alF  the  hundreds  of  pages  in  which  this  theme  is 
elaborated,  Jerusalem  remains  an  abstraction,  \eiled  in  a fog  c^f 
words.  Blake  was  faced  with  a problem  he  could  never  pol\  i . The 
new  world  of  smoke  and  wheels  and  misery,  which  it  is  Ins 
peculiar  in'iportance  to  have  betMi  the  first  to  grasp  imaginatively 
as  a wh(dc,  left  him  bev  ildcred  and  hopeless.  In  this,  as  in  other 
respects,  his  special  position  a?  a fr^c  craftsman  was  both  his 
strength  and  his  weakness.  He  saw  that  there  piusi  be  a solution 
but  too  few'  terms  of  the  equation  were  given  for  him  to  be  able 
to  find  it,  so  all  the  Prophetic  Books  ate  full  of  confused  battles 
that  never  come  to  a climax  and  '»f  the  buildjng  of  fabulous  cities 
only  lliat  they  may  be  ck stroked.  In  one  sense  this  is  because 
Blake  knew  that  history  never  ends:  but  in  another  because  he 
could  not  clearly  see  tlie  ne\t  stc[x  Like  Shelley,  he*  was  a great 
utopian  wh(;se  utopia  never  quite  managed  to  get  itself  written. 

This  section  must  c'oncludc  with  some  account  of  another 
disseniing  radical,  contemporary  with  Blake  and  the  creator  of  a 
Idc'jpia  of  a much  more  familiar  (jattern.  Thomas  Spence  was  born 
in  Newcastle  in  1750  o1  poor  Scottish  parenis  w'ho  were  Glas^itcs, 
members  of  a sect  wliich  adc^oeated  a communil)  of  goods.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-five  Spence  h came  notorious  through  a paper  read 
before  the  Newcastle  Phiiosc'^pliicaf  Society  )n  the  parochial 
ownership  of  land,  hcncefortli  to  be  the  main  point  in  his  political 
programme.  He  was  expelled  from  tlic  Society,  was  victimised  and 
left  Newcastle  for  London,  where  he  lived  as  a teacher,  lecturer 
and  radical  book  seller.  Like  mau}  tradesmen  of  the  time  he 
coined  tokens  for  small  e:  unlike  most  of  them  his  tokens 
often  had  a sharp  political  point.  One,  depicting  a man  hanging 
from  a gallows,  has  the  inscription:  ‘‘The  End  of  Pitt.” 

flolding  viows  of  a definitely  socialist  kind,  which,  unlike 
many  early  socialists,  he  did  all  he  could  to  present  to  the  working 
class,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  was  persecuted  by  the  authorities, 
being  imprisoned  in  1793  and  again  in  1794,  1798  and  1801.  For 


126 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


a long  time  his  views  made  little  headway,  but  shortly  before  his 
death  (1814)  the  Society  of  Spencean  Philanthropists  was  formed, 
which  had  a short  period  of  political  importance  in  connection 
with  the  Spa  Field  Riots  (1816)  and  the  Cato  Street  Conspiracy 
(1820). 

Spence’s  utopia  is  an  exposition  in  fictional  form  of  his  land 
ownership  scheme,  not  unlike  that  afterwards  put  forward  by 
Henry  George  in  Progress  and  Poverty,  It  was  published  in  two 
parts.  Description  of  Spensonia  by  Thomas  Spence  Bookseller  at  the 
Hive  of  Liberty^  8,  Little  Turnstile  Pligh  Hoi  born  London  y appeared  in 
1795.  It  was  followed  in  1801  by  The  Constitution  of  Spensonia^ 
A,  Country  in  Fairyland  situated  between  Utopia  and  Oceana,  This  part 
adds  little  of  importance  to  the  account  in  the  earlier  volume. 

Here  we  are  told  of  a man  who,  dying,  left  a ship  to  his  sons  to 
be  held  in  common.  Bach  was  to  be  paid  a wage  according  to  his 
status  in  the  crew,  but  after  this  all  the  profits  were  to  be  divided 
equally.  The  plan  worked  excellently,  and,  when  in  due  time  the 
ship  was  wrecked  on  an  uninhabited  island,  the  same  principle  was 
adopted.  The  new  country  was  known  as  the  Republic  of  Spen- 
sonia. All  land  was  declared  public  property  and  all  citizens 
received  shares  for  which  they  paid  a rent  to  the  community,  no 
other  taxation  being  levied.  Houses  and  workshops  were  built  at 
public  expense.  The  parish  was  the  unit  of  social  and  economic  life, 
but  a national  assembly,  whose  meetings  needed  to  be  but  short 
and  informal, 

‘‘takes  care  of  their  national  concerns  and  defrays  the  expenses 
of  the  state,  and  matters  of  common  utility,  by  a pound  rate 
from  each  parish,  without  any  other  tax.” 

Further  details  arc  given  in  the  form  of  a dialogue  with  a visitor 
to  Spensonia.  The  liberties  of  the  citizens  arc  guaranteed  by 
two  very  characteristic  ‘guardian  angels’.  A secret  ballot  (the  idea 
of  which  Spence  seems  to  have  taken  from  Harrington)  makes 
bribery  or  corruption  impossible.  The  other  ‘guardian  angel’  is 
“the  universal  Use  of  Arms,  guarantee  of  a free  people.”  This 
had  long  been  a standing  radical  demand:  we  have  seen  that  it 
was  a feature  of  More’s  Utopia  and  that  Swift  condemned  the  use 
of  a standing  army  as  a means  of  enslaving  a people.  More  recently 
the  demand  had  reappeared  in  Godwin’s  Political  Justice,  and  it 
was  part  of*  the  programme  of  the  London  Corresponding 
Society  of  which  Spence  was  a member. 


REASON  IN  REVOLT  127 

In  general,  the  state  was  of  little  importance  compared  with  the 
parish: 

‘*The  parishes  build  and  repair  houses,  make  roads,  plant 
hedges  and  trees,  and  in  a word  do  all  the  business  of  a land- 
lord. And  yon  have  seen  what  sort  of  landlords  they  arc,  I 
suppose  you  do  not  meet  with  much  to  repair  or  improve. 
And  it  is  no  wonder,  for  a parish  has  many  heads  to  cf.ntrivc 
what  ought  to  tc  done.  Instead  of  debating  about  mending  tlic 
State,  as  with  you:  (for  ours  needs  no  mending)  we  employ  our 
ingenuity  nearer  home,  and  the  result  of  our  debates  arc  in  eaeh 
parish,  how  we  shall  work  such  a mine,  drain  such  a fen  or 
improve  such  a waste.  These  things  we  are  all  immediately  inter- 
ested in,  and  have  each  a vote  in  executing;  <ind  thus  we  all  arc 
not  mere  spectators  in  the  world,  but  as  all  men  ought  to  be, 
actors,  and  that  only  for  our  own  bcucfii.  ’ 

A passage  like  this  looks  backward  to  the  medieval  commune 
and  forward  to  the  withering  away  of  the  state . S[^cnce  was  not  an 
inspired  writer,  and  Spensonia  cannot  be  placed  v-'ry  high  in  the 
utopian  hierarchy,  but  at  its  best  it  has  an  honesty  and  freshness, 
an  atmosphere  of  ncighbourlincss,  which  gives  the  reader  a 
feeling  of  real  people  at  work  in  real  clay  winch  is  by  no  means 
common,  and  which  wc  shall  not  encounter  again  before  we  reach 
Morris’  Nen's  from  Nowhere, 


2.  The  Utopian  Socialists 

The  French  Revolution  o isidcrcd  as  a bourgeois  t evolution  wa^^ 
an  outstanding  success,  but  to  tliosc  who  hailed  it  as  the  beginning^ 
of  an  epoch  of  universal  brotherhood  it  was  for  that  very  rcasoi^ 
disappointing,  and  some  of  tliem  began  to  grasp  this  connection, 
as  wc  have  seen  Blake  doing.  Long  before,  isolated  philosophers  of 
the  enlightenment  had  attacked  pri\ale  property  as  the  root  t>f 
social  evils,  but  such  attack.  i*ad  been  regarded  as  an  academic 
quirk.  It  was  the  positive  work  of  tlie  group  of  men  whom  we 
now  call  the  utopian  socialists  to  analyse  the  failure  of  the  French 
Revolution  to*  inaugurate  the  millennium,  and  to  propose 
solutions  based  on  a new  and  more  deep  reaching  criticism  of 
society.  Engels  admirably  describes  their  starting  point  in  his 
Anti’-Duhring: 


128 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


*‘We  saw  in  the  introduction  how  the  French  philosophers 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  who  paved  the  way  for  the  revolu- 
• tion,  appealed  to  reason  as  the  sole  judge  of  all  that  existed. 
A rational  state,  a rational  society  were  to  be  established; 
everything  that  ran  counter  to  eternal  reason  was  to  be  relent- 
lessly set  aside.  We  saw  also  that  in  reality  this  eternal  reason 
was  no  more  than  the  idealised  intellect  of  the  middle  class, 
just  at  that  period  developing  into  the  bourgeoisie.  When, 
therefore,  the  I'rench  Revolution  bad  realised  tliis  rational 
society  and  this  rational  state,  it  became  apparent  that  the  new 
institutions,  however  rational  in  comparison  with  earlier 
conditions,  were  by  no  means  absolutely  rational.  The  rational 
state  had  suffered  shipwreck.  . . . 

*‘Thc  promised  eternal  peace  had  changed  into  an  endless 
war  of  conquest.  The  antagonism  between  rich  and  poor, 
instead  of  being  resolved  in  general  well-being,  had  been 
sharpened  by  the  abolition  of  guild  and  other  privileges,  which 
had  bridged  it  over,  and  of  the  benevolent  institutions  of  the 
church,  which  had  mitigated  its  effects;  the  impetuous  growth 
of  industry  on  a capitalist  basis  raised  the  pen  c-rt)  and  suffering 
of  the  working  masses  into  a vital  condition  of  societ/s 
existence,  . . . 

‘‘Trade  developed  more  and  more  into  swindling.  The 
‘fraternity’  of  the  revolutionary  motto  Was  reahsed  in  the 
envy  and  chicanery  of  the  competitive  struggle.  Corruption 
took  the  place  c»f  violent  oppression,  and  money  replaced  the 
sword  as  the  chief  lever  of  social  power.  . . . 

“In  a word,  compared  with  the  glowing  promises  of  the 
imlightenment,  the  social  and  political  institutions  established 
by  the  ‘victory  of  reason’  proved  to  be  bitterly  disillusioning 
caricatures.  The  only  thing  lacking  was  people  to  voice  this 
disillusionment,  and  these  came  with  the  turn  of  the 
century.” 

These  people  were  nearly  all  men  who  had  reached  maturity 
only  during  the  period  of  the  Revolution.  baint-Simon,  indeed, 
was  born  in  1760,  but  Owen  and  Fourier  were  only  eighteen  and 
seventeen  when  the  Bastille  fell,  while  Cabet  was  born  in  the  year 
before  that  event. 

The  strength  of  all  these  lay  in  tlicir  criticism  of  society,  their 
dawning  sense  of  the  fact  that  the  masses  were  exploited.  Their 


REASON  IN  REVOLT 


129 


weakness  came  from  the  fact  that  these  masses,  even  in  England, 
did  not  yet  constitute  a working  class  in  the  modern  sense  of  the 
term.  So  the  regeneration  of  humanity  could  only  be  the  work 
of  the  genius,  the  exceptional  man  imposing  his  will  upon  the 
herd. 

“The  problem  of  social  organisation”,  wrote  Saint-Simon, 
“must  be  solved  for  the  people.  The  people  themselves  arc 
passive’  and  listless  and  must  be  discounted  in  any  consideration 
of  the  question.” 

His  Utopia  was  one  in  which  the  industrial  bourgeoisie  and  the 
technicians,  between  whom  he  never  clearly  distinguished,  should 
become  the  ruling  class:  the  bourgeois  revolution  was  to  be 
carried  to  its  conclusion  by  the  enthronement  of  a capitalism 
which  had  somehow  ceased  to  exploit  and  a capitalist  rlass  that 
had  somehow  become  altruistic.  The  general  picture  is  very 
similar  to  some  of  H.  G.  Wells’  forecasts^  ot  to  what  it  was 
fashionable  a few  years  ago  to  call  the  Managerial  Revolution. 

If  Fourier,  with  liis  grandiose  schemes  for  a world  covered 
with  a network  of  loosely  related  phalanxes,  is  more  in  line  with 
the  kind  of  utopian  speculation  to  which  we  have  grown  accus- 
tomed, he  presents  his  schemes  with  a background  of  riotous 
imagination  compared  to  which  the  Arabian  is  sober 

realism.  Nevertheless,  there  are  many  important  positive  aspects, 
especially  in  his  conception  of  man  as  a many  sided  being  who  had 
to  be  developed  in  all  directions.  He  wished  to  end  both  the 
excessive  division  of  labour  w^hich  was  making  the  worker,  in 
Marx’s  phrase,  “part  of  a detail  machine”,  and  the  division  created 
by  capitalism  between  town  and  country  which  was  equaL^ 
disastrous  for  both.  And  while,  like  all  the  Utopians,  he  believ^ 
that  man  could  be  moulded  by  his  environment,  he  also 
stood  that  society  cannot  be  arbitrarily  shaped  without  talung 
into  account  the  character  of  man  at  any  given  time.  It  h in  his 
broad  fundamental  ideas  that  Fourier  is  greatest:  in  applying  them 
he  involves  himself  in  a tangle  of  metaphysical  absurdities  which 
often  blind  us  to  the  importance  of  what  he  is  saying. 

It  was  in  Er^land  that  the  development  of  capitalism  and  of  the 
working  class,  was  most  rapid,  and  in  England,  and  with  Owen, 
utopian  socialism  reached  its  highest  point.  Owen  was  first  of  all 
a successful  capitalist,  at  a period  when  the  capitalist  was  still  the 


130  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

actual  organiser  of  production:  he  knew  from  the  inside  the  new 
machines  and  factories,  he  had  a close  daily  contact  with  the 
industrial  workers.  It  was  this  practical  knowledge,  allied  to  and 
transforming  the  theoretical  outlook  which  he  shared  with  the 
other  utopian  socialists,  which  gave  him  his  peculiar  importance. 
Above  all,  he  thought  of  men  as  living  in  society  and  not  as 
isolated  individuals. 

When  he  spoke  of  men’s  character  being  formed  for  them  by 
environment,  he  had  a social  process  in  mind: 

Any  character”  he  wrote  “from  the  best  to  the  worst,  from 
the  most  ignorant  to  the  most  enlightened  may  be  given  to  any 
community  [my  italics],  even  to  the  world  at  large,  by  applying 
certain  measures,  which  are  to  a great  extent  at  the  command, 
and  under  the  control,  or  easily  made  so,  of  those  who  possess 
the  government  of  nations.” 

This  was  not  a mere  ihcorttical  idea,  for  it  goes  in  no  way  beyond 
what  Owen  had  himself  proved  by  his  work  at  New  Lanark,  or 
what  was  afterwards  proved  at  the  Owenite  community  at 
Ralahinc  in  Ireland,  the  only  one  which  met  with  reasonable 
success. 

Yet  the  second  half  (T  the  quotation  is  as  important  as  the  first: 
Owen’s  appeal  for  a long  time  was  to  those  possessing  the  govern- 
ment of  nations.  Like  other  utopian  socialists  he  saw  neither  the 
fact  nor  the  r<jle  of  the  class  struggle  and  believed  that  the  ruling 
class  were  as  open  to  conviction  and  as  ready  to  act  on  the  dictates 
of  reason  as  he  was  himself.  “No  obstacle  whatsoever  intervenes 
at  this  moment  except  ignorance”,  he  wrote  in  1816. 

] C )wcn’s  experiences  at  New  Lanark,  where  he  reduced  hours, 
nereased  wages,  provided  lavish  social  services  and  still  found 
disissible  t(^  produce  substantial  profit^,  convinced  him  that  the 
productive  forces  had  developed  to  such  a degree  that  the 
possibility  of  universal  plenty  should  be  obvious  to  all.  In  a 
generation  a vast  accumulation  of  w^calth  had  taken  place  and  “this 
new  power  was  the  creation  of  the  working  class”.  Yet  the  work- 
ing class  alone  enjoyed  none  of  the  benefits,  and  Owen,  hitherto 
an  exceptionally  enlightened  and  philanthropic  manufacturer  now 
grasped  tlie  point  tliat  this  was  the  result  of  exploitation,  that  the 
workers  could  only  become  prosperous  if  this  exploitation  were 
brought  to  an  end.  At  this  stage  the  readiness  of  the  ruling  class 


REASON  IN  REVOLT  I3I 

to  listen  to  reason  quickly  ended,  and  Owen  found  that  it  was  to 
the  workers  he  must  turn  if  he  wanted  to  be  heard. 

The  outcome  of  Owen’s  New  Lanark  experiences  was  his  pl^in 
for  the  establishment  of  ‘‘Villages  of  Co-operation”.  At  the 
beginning  these  were  to  be  set  up  by  the  government  as  a method 
of  providing  work  for  the  unemployed.  Gradually,  as  he  realised 
that  the  authorities  would  never  adopt  his  plan,  and  with  his 
increasing  contact  with  the  workers,  among  whom  it  was  greeted 
with  enthusiasm,  the  plan  transformed  itself  in  his  miml  into 
something  far  more  ambitious.  The  Villages,  in  which  industry 
and  agriculture  were  to  be  combined,  must  be  “founded  on  the 
principle  of  united  labour,  expenditure  and  property,  and  equal 
privileges”.  Presently  he  conceived  the  idea  that  a network  of  such 
Villages,  expanding  and  prospering  as  he  was  convinced  they 
must,  and  giving  each  other  mutual  oupport,  would  cover  the 
whole  country  and  replace  the  existing  competitive  system  with 
one  based  on  the  principle  of  co-operation.  Much  of  the  rest  of 
his  life  was  spent  in  unsuccessful  attempt^  to  establish  such 
communities:  the  result  was  >»omething  of  which  neither  he,  nor 
any  one  else  at  this  time,  dreamed,  the  vast  Co-operative  Move- 
ment and  the  idea  of  the  Co-operative  Commonwealth  with  which 
it  is  associated. 

Up  till  1820  he  had  been  an  exceptionally  successful  man  of 
business,  but,  had  his  career  ended  then,  he  would  hardly  be 
remembered  today.  In  the  later  part  of  his  life  few  of  Ids  practical 
ventures  ended  without  disaster,  but  he  played  a decisive  part 
in  the  beginnings  of  almost  every  valuable  development  of  ^he 
age.  His  share  in  the  growth  of  the  Trade  Union  and  (^o-operative 
Movements  was  only  more  important  tlian  his  work  for  factojj'J^ 
legislation  and  tor  educational  progress.  d 

Above  all,  though  he  was  not  the  first  socialist,  he  was  die 
through  whom  socialism  first  left  the  study  and  gfippe<c,*,l^  ^ 
masses.  It  is  true  of  course  that  C')wen’s  socialism  was  of  a 
limited  character.  He  did  not  see  the  workers  as  a creative  force, 
but  only  as  a means  through  which  his  own  regenerating  ideas 
could  operate:  to  the  end  he  retained  a good  deal  of  the  character 
of  the  enlightened  master  who  wished  to  guide  and  control  the 
working  class  movement  as  he  had  guided  and  controlled  his 
employees  afNew  Lanark,  Nor  did  he  ever  lose  the  belief  that 
socialism  could  be  brought  about  by  the  formation  of  model 
co-operative  communides  which  would  eliminate  competition  by 


152  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

the  example  of  their  success.  The  story  of  the  Owenite  com- 
munities and  of  the  reasons  for  their  failure  can  have  no  place  in 
this  book,  nor  are  they  what  made  Owen  a great  historical  land- 
mark. His  real  work  was  to  give  a new  object  and  direction  to  the 
British  working  class  movement,  which  carried  it  beyond  the 
limited  radicalism  of  Cobbett  and  his  associates,  and,  very 
quickly,  beyond  Owen  himself.  Owen  attracted  a host  of  disciples, 
many  of  whom  played  important  parts  in  the  Chartist  and  other 
movements. 

One  of  these  disciples  was  a young  man  called  John  Goodwin 
(or,  as  he  later  preferred  to  call  himself,  Goodwyn)  Barmby. 
Barmby  was  born  in  1820  at  the  SujfFolk  village  of  Yoxford,  where 
his  father  was  an  attorney.  He  was  intended  for  the  church,  but 
when  he  was  14  his  father  died  and  he  appears  to  have  taken  his 
education  in  hand  himself.  At  any  rate  he  did  not  attend  any  school 
and  speaks  of  a boyhood  spent  in  roaming  the  fields  and  reading 
poetry.  His  reading,  if  a little  unusual,  was  certainly  wide.  In 
1837  he  went  to  London,  where  he  must  have  moved  in  Owenite 
and  radical  circles,  since  we  find  him,  on  his  return  to  Suffolk, 
entering  wholeheartedly  into  the  Chartist  movement.  During 
1839  the  local  press  contains  a number  of  reports  of  meetings 
addressed  by  him,  both  in  Ipswich,  which  was  the  main  centre  of 
Chartist  activity,  and  in  \illages  in  various  parts  of  Last  Suffolk. 
There  arc  also  numerous  letters  from  liim,  on  all  sorts  of  subjects 
from  the  Repeal  of  the  Union  to  Church  Bells,  into  all  of  which  the 
topic  of  Chartism  is  somehow  introduced. 

harly  in  1 840  he  visited  Paris,  where  he  claims  that 

“at  a certain  interview  at  this  time  with  a celebrated  Frcnch- 
} man,  he  was  the  first  to  pronounce  the  now  famous  name  of 
i Communism.” 

^^^^^thcr  or  not  this  claim  to  absolute  priority  can  be  sub- 
stantiated, there  is  no  doubt,  1 think,  that  Barmby  was  the  first 
to  adopt  the  name  Communist  for  any  organisation  in  England. 
On  liis  return  to  London  in  1841  he  founded  the  Communist 
Propaganda  Society,  later  called  the  Universal  Communitarian 
Association.  He  was  not  free  from  the  weakness  common  to  the 
utopian  socialists  of  picturing  themselves  as  saviouts  of  mankind, 
and  this  is  already  shown  by  his  adoption  of  1 841  as  Year  One  of 
the  new  Communist  Calendar,  or  by  the  tone  of  a letter,  written 
inside  the  cover  of  the  copy  of  the  Association’s  journal,  Tbe 


REASON  IN  REVOLT 


N. 


153 


BAucational  Circular  and  Communist  Apostle  now  in  the  Ipswich 
Public  Library,  which  is  subscribed 


‘‘Barmby,  President  in  Chief  • 
To  Commoner  T.  Glide.” 


Barmby  at  this  date  was  still  a little  less  than  21! 

Wc  are  not  told  the  name  of  the  ‘‘famous  Frenchman”,  but  the 
evidence  Uvailabl^  suggests  tliat  it  may  have  been  Cabei,  whom 
Barmby  probably  met  in  London  in  1838,  w’as  certainly  on  good 
terms  with  in  Paris  in  1841,  and  with  whom  he  afterwards  corres- 
ponded. Cabet  in  1840  had  just  made  a scnsatif>n  with  his  utopian 
romance  Un  voyage  en  Icarie^  which  was  to  give  him  for  a few  years 
a position  in  the  French  working-class  movement  comparable  to 
that  held  by  Owen  somewhat  earlier  1*1  Itngland.  C'.abet  had  taken 
part  in  the  Revolution  of  1830  but  was  presently  banished  to 
England  as  an  uncomfortably  radical  politician.  Here  he  became 
acquainted  with  Owen  and  with  the  writings  of  More  and 
Harrington.  Under  this  stimulus  he  began  a study  of  utopian 
literature  which  led  him  to  the  writing  of  Un  voyage  en  fcarie,  a work 
rather  eclectic  than  original.  Its  enthusiasm  and  apparent  practic- 
ability, which  made  it  boundlessly  popular  in  France  a century 
ago,  cannot  now  hide  the  pomposity  and  the  poverty  of  invention 
which  make  Icaria  surely  the  drabbest  Utopia  between  Nova 
Solyma  and  Bellamy’s  Boston. 

''X^hat  is  important  in  it  is  not  the  utopian  details  but  the  fact 
that  Cabet  tried  to  coniplt  te  the  work  of  the  French  Rcvolutitni  by 
giving  a new  content  to  the  old  slogans.  In  Icaria  equality  means 
not  merely  equality  before  the  law  but  economic  equality  worked 
out  to  a mechanical  nicety  wliich  would  be  terrifying  if  it  cou^ 
be  taken  seriously.  Everyone  is  to  live  in  the  same  kind  of  house, 
to  eat  the  same  food  in  communal  restaurants,  to  work  the 
number  of  hours,  and  the  same  hours,  every  day,  and  to  weaHilC 
uniform  proper  to  his  or  her  age,  calling  and  circumstance.  On 
this  basis,  Icaria  is  a completely  democratic  Republic: 

“It  is  the  Republic  or  Community  which  alone  is  the  owner 
of  everything,  which  organises  the  workers,  and  causes  the 
factories  and  storehouses  to  be  built,  which  sees  that  the 
land  is  tilled,  that  houses  are  built  and  that  all  the  objects 
necessary  for  feeding,  clothing  and  housing  each  family  and 
each  citizen  are  provided.” 


^34 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


Cabet  intended  his  book  only  as  a theoretical  essay  in  the 
manner  of  More,  but  he  was  overwhelmed  by  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  it  was  received  and  forced  reluctantly  into  the  leadership  of 
a mass  movement  which  hoped  to  regenerate  France  and  the 
world  by  setting  up  Icarian  communities  in  America.  Nobody 
on  a similar  mission  ever  set  out  with  such  hopes  and  such 
support  as  the  first  body  of  colonists  who  left  for  Texas  in  1 847. 
The  hopes  were  disappointed,  the  support  dwindled  rapidly  after 
1848,  every  kind  of  hardship  and  misfortune  was  encountered, 
but  up  to  a point  the  ^attempt  succeeded.  Despite  all  external 
difficulties  and  a scries  of  internal  feuds  and  secessions,  for  which 
Cabet  himself  was  certainly  partly  to  blame,  the  Icarian  communi- 
ties survived  for  50  years,  a length  of  life  without  parallel  in  the 
history  of  utopian  colonics. 

Barmby  was  certainly  strongly  influenced  by  Cabet  at  this  stage, 
and  when  he  spoke  of  Communism  he  meant  something  like 
Icarian  communities  with  the  addition  of  a rather  Shelleyan 
pantheism.  He  now  began  to  turn  his  mind  increasingly  towards 
the  possibility  of  founding  such  a community.  He  did  not  abandon 
Chartism — in  1841  he  was  elected  as  the  Suffolk  delegate  to  the 
Convention  and  later  111  the  same  year  was  adopted  by  the  Ipswich 
Chartists  as  their  prospective  Parliamentary  candidate  - but 
Chartism,  however  excellent  m itself  as  an  immediate  step, 
began  to  seem  a small  matter  to  one  who  dreamed  of  the  trans- 
formatic^n  of  the  entire  human  race. 

“Neither  democracy  or  aristocrac)  ”,  he  wrote  a little  later, 
“have  anything  to  do  with  Communism.  They  are  party  terms 
fot  the  present.  In  future  Governmental  politics  will  be 
^ succeeded  by  industrial  administration.” 

\ 

di?/canwhilc  he  seems  to  have  joined  for  a short  time  the  Alcott 
Concordium,  founded  on  Ham  Common  by  James  Pierre- 
pont  Greaves.  \X  hen  this  broke  up  (largely  because  the  members 
objected  to  a diet  of  raw  vegetables  during  the  winter  months)  he 
was  attracted  by  the  efforts  of  the  Tropical  Emigration  Society  to 
establish  a settlement  in  Venezuela  1 and  there  was  a project  for  a 
Communitorium  at  Hanwell  and  another  on  the  island  of  Sark. 
TVnother  venture  was  the  publication,  in  January,  1842,  of  a 

1 Readers  of  A/fon  Lo.Jht  will  remember  the  passionate  longing  of  its  Chartist 
hero  to  settle  in  some  tropical  country,  and  how  he  did  so  after  the  collapse  of 
Chartism. 


^ REASON  IN  REVOLT  135 

magazine.  The  Promethean.  The  name  is  significant  both  of 
Barmby^s  debt  to  Shelley  and  more  particularly  because  of  the 
place  occupied  by  Prometheus  in  the  radical  thought  of  Uic  tiroe, 
Prometheus  was  the  redeemer  of  man  through  knowledge,  the 
hero  who  braved  the  wrath  of  obscurantists  and  gods  to  bring 
man  his  heritage  that  was  deliberately  withheld.  Like  Owen, 
Barmby  believed  that  there  was  no  obstacle  but  ignorance. 

The  four  issues  of  The  Promethean  contain  articles  by  Barmby  on 
a quite  extraordinary  variety  of  subjects.  Besides  one  series  on 
Communism  and  another  on  Industrial  Organisation,  there  is 
An  Essaj  Towards  Philanthropic  P/nlo/og)/^  advocating  a universal 
language,  The  Amelioration  of  Chmutnre  in  Commimalisation^  on  the 
effect  of  human  activity  on  climate  and  the  prospect  of  climate 
control  in  the  future,  and  Past^  Present  and  future  Cbomlofty* 
An  Historic  Introduction  to  the  Communis  Calendar. 

The  Promethean  was  not  a success,  but  tlie  C2oinmunitarian 
Association  seems  to  have  continued  to  exist  on  a small  scale  and 
at  some  point  was  reconstituted  as  the  Communisl  Church.  About 
this  time,  and  possibly  at  Ham  (x)mmon,  Barmby  met  a young 
man  of  his  own  age,  Thomas  Fiost,  whose  Vorty  Years'*  Kccollections 
(1880)  is  the  main  authority  for  the  next  phase  of  his  career. 
Frost  describes  Barmby  as 

‘‘a  young  man  of  gentlemanly  manners  and  a soft,  persuasive 
voice,  wearing  his  light  brown  hair  parted  in  the  middle  after 
the  fashion  of  the  Concordist  brethren,  and  a collar  and  tic 
d la  Byron?"*  He  found  Barmby  "‘conversant  with  the  whole 
range  of  Utopian  literature”  and  he  “blended  with  the  Com- 
munistic theory  of  society  the  pantheistic  views  of  Spinoza,  of 
which  Shelley  is  in  tliis  country  the  best  known  exponent.” 

The  two  agreed  to  revive  The  Communist  Chronicle  as  a pp 
weekly,  and  it  was  published  by  Hetherington.  It  was 
Communist  Chronicle  that  Barmby’s  utopian  romance.  The  Book  of 
Platonopolis  appeared  as  a serial.  Unless  a file  of  the  Chronicle 
remains  hidden  in  some  library,  this  utopia  appears  to  be  com- 
pletely lost,  but  it  is  probable  that  a very  fair  idea  of  its  character 

and  contents  is  given  in  Frost’s  summary: 

• 

“This  was  a vision  of  the  future,  a dream  of  the  rehabilitation 
of  the  earth  and  of  humanity;  of  Communisteries  built  of  marble 
and  porphyry,  in  which  the  commoners  dine  off  gold  and 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


136 

silver  plate,  in  banqueting-haJls  furnished  with  the  most 
exquisite  productions  of  the  painter  and  sculptor,  and  enlivened 
.with  music;  where  the  steam  cars  carry  them  from  one  place 
to  another  as  often  as  they  desire  a change  of  residence,  or, 
if  they  wish  to  vary  the  mode  of  travelling,  balloons  and  aerial 
ships  are  ready  to  transport  them  through  the  air;  where,  in  short, 
all  that  has  been  imagined  by  Plato,  More,  Bacon  and  Campan- 
ella  is  reproduced,  and  combined  with  all  that  modern  science 
has  effected  or  essayed  for  lessening  human  toil  or  promoting 
human  enjoyment.” 

If  we  add  to  this  account  the  list  of  forty  four  “Socictarian 
Wants”  published  in  the  first  issue  of  The  Promthean^  of  which  the 
first  ten  are: 

“i.  Community  of  sentiment,  labour  and  property. 

“2.  Abbreviation  of  manual  labour  by  machinery. 

“3.  Organisation  of  Industry  in  general  and  particular 
functions. 

“4,  Unitary  architecture  of  habitation. 

“5.  The  Marriage  of  the  city  and  the  country. 

“6.  Economy  through  combination  in  domestics. 

‘‘7.  Love  through  universality  in  ecclesiastics. 

‘‘8.  Order  through  justice  or  abstract  mathematics  in 
politics. 

‘^9.  Medicinally  prepared  diet. 

“10.  Common  or  contemporaneous  consumption  of  food” 

and  compare  all  this  with  the  arrangements  of  Cabet’s  Icaria,  we 
need  not  perhaps  too  much  regret  the  disappearance  of  1 he  Book 
* Platonopolis, 

\ 

^jjJ^roposals  for  a Communitorium  on  the  island  of  Sark  and 
oa*  iie  outskirts  of  London  came  to  nothing  and  there  was  a 
growing  friction.  Of  this  we  have  only  Frost’s  account,  but  it 
would  appear  that  while  he  wished  to  develop  The  Communist 
Chronicle  as  a common  organ  for  all  existing  socialist  and  com- 
munist groups,  Barmby  wanted  it  to  serve  the  ends  of  his 
Communist  Church.  By  about  1845  ^ break  took  place  which 
quickly  killed  both  Chronicle  and  a Communist  Journal  which  Frost 
attempted  to  run  in  competition  with  it. 

The  remainder  of  Barmby’s  story  can  be  told  more  briefly. 
J848  found  him  once  more  in  Paris^  but  soon  after  this  he  took 


REASON  IN  REVOLT 


137 

a new  turn,  shedding  his  utopian  communism  to  become  a 
Unitarian  minister.  He  remained  politically  active,  however, 
became  a member  of  the  Council  of  Mazzini's  International 
League  and  took  part  in  the  movements  in  defence  of  Polish, 
Italian  and  Hungarian  liberation.  In  1867,  while  Unitarian 
minister  at  Wakefield,  he  organised  a big  meeting  to  demand 
parliamentary  reform.  In  1879  his  health  broke  down  and  he 
returned  to  Yoxford  where  he  died  in  1881. 

But  in  fact  the  significant  part  ot  his  career  ended  in  the  Chartist 
Forties,  for  those  years  marked  also  the  ending  of  utopian  social- 
ism in  England.  In  one  sense  the  very  development  of  the  working 
class  movement  which  culminated  in  Chartism  made  it  superfluous: 
utopianism  is  a characteristic  of  an  immature  working  class.  But 
it  is  also  true  that  for  these  few  years  the  general  growth  of  the 
movement  also  stimulated  utopianism,  so  that  it  went  out  like 
a rocket,  in  a blaze  of  splendour.  It  was  in  these  jvars,  the 
years  from  Owen’s  Queenwood  fi839)  to  O’Connor's  Land 
Scheme  (c.  1846),  that  the  imagination  of  tlx:  masses  was  most 
easily  stirred.  Chartism  did  not  prevent  thousands  from  seeking 
parallel  ways  of  release  from  their  sufferings,  indeed,  it  was  from 
this  desire  for  release,  tliis  stirring  of  the  imagination  that 
Chartism  in  turn  drew  much  of  its  vitality.  ^ 

After  1848  circumstances  changed  abruptly.  The  political  defeat 
of  Chartism  disappointed  many.  The  ending  of  the  years  of  slump 
and  crisis  and  the  opening  of  the  great  capitalist  boom  of  the 
mid-century  set  the  working  class  movement  on  a new  and  more 
prosaic  course.  The  discovery  of  tlic  American  and  Australian 
gold  fields  and  the  rapid  advance  in  land  and  sea  transport  led 

1 This  stitring  of  the  jniaginntion  in  (-hartisn.,  and  its  turn  into  Utopian  form  ^ 
well  illustrated  by  a poem  wiitten  by  lamest  Jones,  uhile  in  prison  between  jui] 
1848,  and  July,  1850.  1 he  JSea'  U”orU:  A democratic poem^  Rtves,  in  language  not  un1jj;r 
that  of  Barmby,  but  with  greater  piccision  and  maturity  of  thought,  a pictu^  ^ 
classless  w'orld  in  which  nature  is  transformed  by  science  and  man  in  tum'lEtifls-  ■* 
forms  himself: 

“Mcclianic  power  then  ministers  to  health, 

And  lengthening  leisure  gladdens  greatening  wealth.  . . . 

No  fevered  lands  with  burning  plagues  expire. 

But  draw  the  rain  as  brankhn  drew  the  fire; 

Or  far  to  mountains  guide  the  floating  hail. 

And  whirl  on  barren  rcxrks  its  harmless  flail.” 

Like  all  the  Utopians  of  the  age,  Jones  saw  in  science  a liberating  force,  but  he  was 
already  learning  from  the  experience  of  Chartism  and  the  teaching  of  Afanc  and 
Bngels  that  this  force  could  only  be  set  in  motion  through  the  conquest  of  power  by 
the  working  class. 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


138 

to  an  epoch  of  large  scale  emigration  in  which  the  kind  of  energy 
that  had  gone  into  the  establishment  of  Owenite  or  Icarian 
communities  now  spent  itself  on  more  individual  pioneering  in 
the  newly  opened  territories.  In  the  light  of  this,  Barmby’s  whole 
career,  and  not  least  his  abandonment  of  utopianism  after  1848, 
seems  to  have  a significance  out  of  all  proportion  to  his  intrinsic 
importance. 

It  is  difficult  not  to  see  him  as  a slightly  comic  figure,  this 
earnest  young  man  so  determinedly  setting  ouv  to  be  the  saviour 
of  mankind.  Frost  says  of  him: 

‘‘It  was  the  misfortune  of  those  who  accepted  him  for  their 
leader  that  they  never  knew  the  goal  to  which  he  was  leading 
them.  Viewing  his  erratic  flights  in  the  past  by  the  light  of  his 
career  in  later  years  it  would  seem  that,  while  endeavouring 
to  form  a church  which  should  be  ‘the  Sacred  Future  of 
Society’,  he  was  really  still  groping  towards  the  light  and 
seeking  for  something  which  eluded  him.” 

Erratic  and  pretentious  though  he  was,  Barmby  had  energy 
and  imagination  and  a contact  with  the  mainstream  of  the  mass 
movement  which  he  never  entirely  lost.  Like  all  the  Utopians  he 
knew  both  what  was  wrong  and  what  was  needed.  The  some- 
thing that  eluded  him  was  the  knowledge  of  how  to  bridge  the 
gap  between  what  existed  and  the  world  he  desired.  Yet  at  this 
very  time  Chartism  was  helping  Marx  to  perfect  his  science  of  the 
movement  of  society:  1848  was  not  only  the  year  of  the  defeat  of 
Chartism,  it  was  also  the  ^^ear  of  Revolutions  and  of  The  Com- 
munist Manifesto, 

i 

^ 3.  The  Book  of  the  Machines 

dis'*'  ~ 

^ Chartism,  the  Year  of  Revolutions  and  The  Communist 

Manifesto  the  old  style  utopias  should  have  come  to  an  abrupt  end. 
It  should  have  been  clear  that  the  practical  questions  now  were, 
how  would  the  new  socialist  society  emerge  from  existing  society, 
and,  in  accordance  with  its  origin  and  the  history  of  its  growth, 
what  were  its  characteristics  likely  to  be?  But  in  fact  it  was  more 
than  a quarter  of  a century  before  these  questions  .were  seriously 
put,  and  the  gap  between  Barmby  and  Bellamy,  which  corres- 
ponds also  to  the  classic  period  of  expanding  British  capitalism, 
is  conveniently  occupied  with  two  utopias  which  are  concerned 


REASON  IN  REVOJLT  1J9 

not  witK  these  fundamental  questions  but  with  incidental  aspects 
of  nineteenth  century  bourgeois  society  considered  as  a going 
concern. 

The  Coming  Race  by  Lord  Lytton  (1870)  and  Erewhon  by  Samuel 
Butler  (1872)  arc  books  so  different  in  spirit  and  temper  that  it  is 
hard  to  realise  that  their  publication  was  almost  simultaneous, 
but  they  have  this  much  in  common:  both  are  concerned  with  the 
superstrueturc  of  society,  the  basis  is  never  questioned  or  oven 
explained.  Both  books  deal,  in  their  different  ways,  with  such 
questions  as  religion,  marriage  and  sex  relations,  education, 
crime  and  punishment,  and,  especially,  with  the  effects  of 
machinery  and  the  development  of  science  on  human  happiness. 
Ii  is  characteristic  of  both  ♦hat  questiems  arc  put  rather  than 
answered:  Butler’s  satire  is  so  involved  that  in  the  end  his  meaning 
is  often  left  obscure,  while  J-ytton’s  hero,  though  admiring  the 
underground  Utopia  which  he  discovers,  suffers  so  severely  from 
a ‘discouragement’,  rather  like  that  which  strikes  down  the  ‘short 
lived’  in  Shaw’s  BacA  I0  Methuselah^  that  he  is  delighted  in  the  end 
to  return  to  the  world  from  which  he  came. 

l^ytton,  dandy,  politician  and  best-selling  Victorian  novelist, 
young  radical  and  old  Tory,  was  the  last  of  that  scries  of  brilliant 
young  men  whom  Godwin  drew  around  him.  Written  at  the  very 
end  of  his  life,  and  thirty  five  years  after  the  death  of  Godwin, 
The  Coming  Race  has  hardly  a page  in  wluch  Godwin’s  influence 
cannot  be  traced,  though  there  is  evidence  also  of  a study  both  of 
the  utopian  socialists  and  the  classical  utopian  writers  like  More 
and  Bacon.  All  this  is  blended  with  Lytton’s  aristocratic  and  Tf^ry 
outlook,  though  it  is  also  true  that  there  was  much  in  Godwin’s 
abstract  intellectualism  that  v as  not  incompatible  with  ToryisT' 
by  1870.  Lytton’s  ambiguous  standpoint  can  be  illustrated  by1 
passage  in  which  the  hero  (an  American)  is  made  to  extol 
native  land  after  the  style  of  Swift  among  the  Houhynhnmsx.*i-. 

“I  touched  but  slightly,  though  indulgently,  on  the  anti- 
quated and  decaying  institutions  of  Europe,  in  order  to 
expatiate  on  the  present  grandeur  and  prospective  pre-emin- 
ence of  that  glorious  American  Republic,  in  which  Europe 
enviously  seeks  its  model  and  tremblingly  foresees  its  doom  . . . 
dwelling  on  the  excellence  of  democratic  institutions,  their 
promotion  of  tranquil  happiness  by  the  government  of  party, 
and  the  mode  in  which  they  diffused  such  happiness  throughout 


140  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

the  community  by  preferring,  for  the  exercise  of  power  and  the 
acquisition  of  honours,  the  lowliest  citizens  in  point  of 
property,  education  and  character.  Fortunately  recollecting 
the  peroration  of  a speech,  on  the  purifying  influences  of 
American  democracy,  made  by  a certain  eloquent  senator  (for 
whose  vote  in  the  Senate  a Railway  Company,  to  which 
my  two  brothers  belonged,  had  just  paid  20,000  dollars),  I 
wound  up  by  repeating  its  glowing  predictions  of  the  magnifi- 
cent future  that  smiled  upon  ntankind — when  the  flag  of  free- 
dom should  float  over  an  entirw"  continent,  and  two  hundred 
millions  of  intelligent  citizens,  accustomed  from  infancy  to 
the  daily  use  of  revolvers,  should  apply  to  a cowering  universe 
the  doctrine  of  the  Patriot  Monroe.” 

In  part  such  a passage  reflects  the  hatred  of  the  average  English 
Tory  for  American  or  any  other  democracy,  a hatred  particularly 
acute  in  the  years  just  after  the  Civil  War,  and  Lytton  in  The 
Coming  Race  certainly  takes  every  opportunity  to  attack  and  dis- 
parage democracy  as  the  worst  possible  form  of  government.  But 
it  reflects  also  the  great  change  that  had  taken  place  since  Blake, 
Paine  and  Coleridge  had  hailed  the  revolutionary  democracy  of 
America  as  a new  dispensation,  when,  for  a few  years,  America 
and  Utopia  had  seemed  to  be  almost  identical.  The  visit  of 
Dickens  to  America  and  the  publication  of  liis  Mar/in  Chn^lewit 
(1843)  marks  an  awareness  of  the  corruption  of  that  democracy 
accompanying  the  growth  of  capitalism,  and  by  1870  the 
beginnings  of  monopoly  and  a whole  series  of  resounding 
scandals  were  exposing  features  of  the  American  w'^ay  of  life 
^which  have  since  become  more  unpleasantly  obvious.  It  did  not 
^ed  a Tory  to  sec  that  the  ‘pure’  bourgeois  democracy  of  the 
'^jTnited  States  could  become  every  bit  as  corrupt  and  predatory 
, t'te  varied  combinations  of  feudal  and  capitalist  society  that 
existed  in  Ivurope.  It  was  already  clear  that  free  enterprise,  the 
enlightened  exercise  of  reason  and  self  interest  without  the 
interference  of  kings,  priests  or  nobility,  could  never  produce  the 
Utopia  which  had  been  so  confidently  expected  from  it. 

Lytton,  of  course,  could  not  look  forward  to  socialism  for  a 
solution.  He  seems  to  have  envisaged  some  form  of  society  in 
which  Toryism  met  Godwinian  anarchism  on  the  ground  that 
in  a completely  patriarchal  society  everyone  would  know  and 
accept  their  place  as  in  a happy  family,  and  that  every  form  of 


REASON  IN  REVOLT 


I4I 

government  and  compulsion  would  then  become  superfluous.  He 
certainly  accepted  Godwin’s  view  that  a community  so  organised 
must  of  necessity  be  small:  the  tribes  of  the  Vril-ya  did  not  often 
contain  many  more  than  50,000  souls. 

The  story  of  The  Coming  Kace  is  simple  enough.  Ils  rich 
American  hero  discovers  a vast  underground  country  while 
exploring  a mine.  This  country  is  inhabited  parily  by  the  very 
highly  civilised  Vril-ya  and  partly  by  much  more  numerous 
nations  in  various  stages  of  more  or  less  democratic  barbarism. 
The  distinguishing  feature  of  the  Vrihya,  from  which  their  name 
derives,  is  the  possession  of  Vri),  a force  comparable  in  many  ways 
with  atomic  energy,  but  so  completely  controlled  that  it  is  con 
tained  in  a light  staff  carried  by  all  individuals  and  can  be  used  at 
will  for  any  purpose  of  construction  or  destruction.  It  is  Vril 
which  has  transformed  the  lives  of  these  ]')eople,  abolishing  war, 
making  government  unnecessary,  and,  indeed,  itnpossible,  since 
every  individual  has  the  power,  if  lie  chooses  to  exercise  it,  to 
destroy  the  whole  community  in  a moment.  Vril  also  providf  s 
such  a supply  of  energy  for  productive  purposes  that  an  age  of 
plenty  exists.  Most  work  is  done  by  elaborate  machines  or  by 
Vril-operated  robots,  but  what  dirty  or  unpleasant  work  docs 
remain  is  left,  as  in  fouricr’s  phalanxes,  to  children.  Since 
literature  and  the  arts  have  also  ceased  to  exist  to  any  extent,  it  is 
a little  difficult  to  discover  how  the  adult  Vril  ya  actually  pass 
tlieir  time. 

Most  of  the  book  is  occupied  with  an  account  of  their  customs, 
history  and  beliefs:  in  general  the  result  is,  as  I have  suggested, 
a compost  of  Godwin,  Owen,  Fourier  and  Cabet:  when  Lytton 
departs  from  the  traditional  utopian  features  his  poverty  anJ 
confusion  of  ideas  become  aj-iparent.  In  spite  of  some  superficial!)^ 
‘Socialist’  details  his  Utopia  has  as  its  basis  a naively  Tory 
ism,  in  which  private  ownership  continues  but  exploitation' iAkr 
poverty  have  been  ironed  out,  and  the  rich  arc  far  too  gentlemanly 
to  regard  their  wealth  as  anything  but  a source  of  rather  irksome 
obligations.  The  hero’s  host  explains  gravely: 

“Ana  [men]  like  myself,  who  are  very  rich,  are  obliged  to  buy 
a great  many  things  they  do  not  require,  and  live  on  a very 
large  scale  '^J^hen  they  might  prefer  to  live  on  a small  one.  . . . 
But  we  must  all  bear  the  lot  assigned  to  us  in  this  short  passage 
through  time  that  we  call  life.  After  all,  what  are  a hundred 


142  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

years,  more  or  less,  to  the  age  through  which  we  must  pass  here- 
after? Luckily  I have  one  son  who  likes  great  wealth.  He  is 
a rare  exception  to  the  rule,  and  I own  I cannot  understand  it.” 

Similarly,  though  an  air  of  novelty  is  given  to  sex  relations  by 
the  reversal  of  the  roles  conventionally  assigned  to  men  and 
women,  in  essentials  the  picture  presented  is  no  different  from 
what  might  be  seen  in  any  fashionable  Victorian  drawing-room. 
The  hero  at  a party  observes: 

“Wherever  I turned  my  eyes,  or  lent  my  ears,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  Gy  (woman)  was  the  wooing  party  and  the  An  (man) 
the  coy  and  reluctant  one.  The  pretty  innocent  airs  which  the 
An  gave  himself  on  being  thus  courted,  the  dexterity  with 
which  he  evaded  direct  answers  to  professions  of  attachment, 
or  turned  into  jest  the  feathery  compliments  addressed  to  him, 
would  have  done  honour  to  the  most  accomplished  coquette.” 

The  right  of  women  in  this  underworld  Utopia  to  make  sexual 
advances  brings  the  plot  to  such  conclusion  as  it  has.  Two  Gy-ei 
(seven  feet  high)  make  the  most  determined  attempts  to  secure 
the  hero,  who  might  well  have  found  such  a situation  alarming 
even  if  he  had  not  been  warned  that  if  he  gave  way  he  would 
certainly  be  reduced  to  a cinder  by  the  pow’^er  of  Vril  in  order  to 
avoid  the  contamination  of  this  super-race  by  inferior  stock. 
Eventually  he  escapes  to  the  surface  world,  thoroughly  scared  and 
full  of  forebodings  of  the  time  when  the  Vril-ya  will  re-cmerge 
into  the  air  and  colonise  the  earth  after  exterminating  its  in- 
habitants. 

j In  many  ways  The  Cow  mg  Knee  is  a trivial  book,  and  its  main 
^merest  is  as  an  illustration  of  the  way  the  rational  radicalism  of 
jfhe  enlightenment  had  become  vulgarised  and  drained  of  its 
;„-j.tvt>lutionary  content  after  a century  of  capitalist  advance. 
Erewhon^  published  only  two  years  later,  though  it  seems  at  first 
sight  a far  more  modern  work,  and  though  it  is  written  on  an 
altogether  different  level  of  sophistication,  is  nevertheless  equally 
mid-Victorian  in  a somewhat  Afferent  manner.  It  is  a prospect  of 
Utopia  from  the  study  window  of  a country  rectory  through  the 
eyes  of  the  rector’s  brilliant,  eccentric  son.  And  it  is  one  of  the 
characteristics  of  the  rector’s  clever  son  that  he  is  able  to  feel 
supremely  detached  while  in  fact  remaining  very  much  a part  of 
his  environment.  Such  was  peculiarly  the  case  with  Samuel 


REASON  IN  REVOLT 


M3 


Butler,  afid  it  is  this  which  gives  to  Erewion  its  unique  flavour. 

The  world  of  the  more  prosperous  clergy  into  which  he  was 
born,  people  with  good  livings  and  ample  private  incomes,  was 
in  itself  as  isolated  as  it  could  well  be.  Its  money  did  not  stink:  it 
had  no  visible  connection  with  the  productive  process  at  any  point: 
it  never  encountered  the  working  class  except  as  servants  or  as 
respectful,  hat-touching  rustics.  And  even  from  this  world  Butler 

set  deliberately  to  work  to  detach  himself. 

* 

“Melchisidck”,  he  wrote  in  one  of  his  jottings,  ‘‘was  a ically 
happy  man.  He  was  without  father,  without  mother  and 
without  descent.  He  was  an  incarnate  batchelor.  He  was  a 
born  orphan.” 

In  the  course  of  his  life  he  quarrelled  not  only  with  liis  family  but 
with  every  religious,  scientific  or  literary  group  that  came  across 
his  path. 

Yet  he  always  returned,  just  as  the  section  in  his  Notebooks 
headed  Rebelliousness  is  followed  by  another  headed  Keconciliation, 
He  quarrelled  with  his  family  yet  he  never  broke  with  them,  just 
as  his  criticism  of  society  never  came  to  the  point  of  questioning 
the  basis  on  which  the  comfortable,  acailemic  middle  class 
existed  and  his  criticism  of  religion  never  came  to  the  point  of 
an  atheism  wliich  would  have  made  nonsense  of  their  comfortable, 
academic  ideas.  He  loved  to  shock  and  alarm,  but  never  to  a 
degree  that  would  have  made  him  finally  unacceptable.  It  is 
perhaps  characteristic  that,  when  he  had  shocked  his  father  by 
refusing  to  take  llol)  Orders,  it  was  to  New  Zealand,  then  the 
most  anglican  and  gentlemanly  of  colonies,  that  he  agreed  to  go 
and  try  his  hand  at  sheep  farming.  All  the  same  it  was  New 
Zealand  that  gave  him  the  distance  and  the  sharpness  that  wert/j 
necessary  to  enable  him  to  see  England  in  a new  light, 
Zealand  as  well  as  the  rectory  had  its  part  in  HrewLon.  Buj* 
proved  a very  good  farmer  and  reacted  to  this  pioneering  life  with 
delight.  The  settlement  at  this  time  was  on  the  East  coast, 
dominated  by  the  Western  Ranges,  against  wliich  it  pushed 
continually,  trying  to  find  ways  through  or  more  sheep  pasture, 
Butler  took  an  active  part  in  this  exploration,  fascinated  by  the 
unknown. 

“Few  people”,  he  wrote  in  A First  Year  in  Canterbury 
Settlement,  “believe  in  the  existence  of  a moa.  If  one  or  two 
be  yet  living,  they  wiU  probably  be  found  on  the  West  Coast, 


144  the  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

that  yet  unexplored  region  of  forest  which  may  contain  sleep- 
ing princesses  and  gold  in  blocks  and  all  sorts  of  good  things/^ 

This  was  the  spirit  in  which  I liggs,  the  hero  of  Erewhofty  set  out 
on  his  journey  over  the  range. 

The  Utopia  he  discovers,  Erewhon  (Nowhere)  is  of  all  its  kind 
the  most  difficult  to  classify.  It  is  neither  positive — an  example  to 
be  followed,  nor  negative — an  awful  warning.  It  is  indeed  a 
veritable  Mmdus  Alter  et  Idem^  an  antipodean  country  like  and 
unlike  our  own,  with  its  own  wisdom  and  its  own  fc^lly,  different 
from  ours  but  subtly  complementary,  so  that  it  satirises  and 
criticises  on  two  or  three  ditferent  planes  simultaneously.  Its 
hero  is  at  one  and  the  same  time  Butler  who  satirises  and  a 
priggish  young  anglican  who  is  the  object  of  the  satire.  Erewhon 
and  Imgland  arc,  as  it  were,  the  left  atid  right  foot  of  the  same 
pair  of  boots. 

Higgs,  then,  pushes  into  the  mountains  as  Butler  had  done,  and 
emerges  into  a country  witli  a social  structure  and  a cultural  level 
very  similar  to  our  own.  One  immediately  striking  difference  is  the 
complete  absence  of  machinery.  How  a society  with  a medieval 
productive  technique  could  in  other  ways  resemble  industrial 
England  is  one  of  the  class  of  questions  Butler  is  never  sufficiently 
interested  to  ask.  Higgs  discovers  presently  that  the  absence  of 
macliinery  is  not  due  to  lack  of  invention  but  to  deliberate  policy. 
Some  live  hundred  years  before,  a civil  uar  had  ended  with  the 
victory  of  the  machine-wrecking  party  and  the  total  destruction 
of  all  machinery,  and  since  that  time  its  manufacture  or  use  has 
been  prohibited  under  the  severest  penalties,  penalties  from  which 
Higgs  barely  escaped  from  being  in  possession  of  a watch.  All 
^his  is  explained  in  a long  section  of  hreirljoti  cniitfed  The  Book  of 
I the  Machines. 

li-  Here,  as  usual,  Butler  seems  to  be  saying  a number  of  things  at 
" kjlZc.  In  part  this  is  an  attack  on  mechanical  materialism,  in  which 
he  uses  his  favourite  method  of  carrying  an  argument  to  the 
logical  point  at  which  its  absurdity  becomes  self-evident.  In  this 
case,  starting  from  the  argument  that  man  is  really  notliing  but 
a machine,  he  suggests  that,  if  so,  the  machine  is  a potential  man 
and  may  in  the  course  of  evolution  become  human  and  even 
superhuman. 

*^After  all  then  it  comes  to  this,  that  the  difference  between 

the  life  of  a man  and  that  of  a macliine  is  one  rather  of  degree 


REASON  IN  REVOLT 


M5 


than  of  kind,  though  differences  in  kind  are  not  wanting.  A.n 
animal  has  more  provision  for  emergency  than  a machine.  The 
machine  is  less  versatile;  its  range  of  action  is  narrow;  its 
strength  and  accuracy  in  its  own  sphere  arc  superhuman,  but 
it  shows  badly  in  a dilemma;  sometimes  when  its  normal 
action  is  disturbed,  it  will  lose  its  head,  and  go  from  bad  to 
worse  like  a lunatic  in  a raging  frenzy;  but  liore,  again,  we 
arc  met^by  the  same  consideration  as  before,  namely,  thai  the 
machines  arc  still  in  their  infancy;  they  arc  mere  skeletons 
without  muscles  and  flesh.” 

In  this  sense  The  liook  of  the  Machines  was  Butler’s  first  shot  in  the 
war  against  the  Darwinians,  waged  ujider  the  slogan  of  ‘creative 
evolution’. 

This,  however,  is  only  part  of  the  story.  He  argues,  or  the 
Krewhonian  book  he  pretends  to  quote  argues,  that  uiaeljincs  arc 
a menace  to  man,  that,  beginning  in  a humbli*  way  as  his  servants, 
they  are  rapidly  bcct)ming  his  masters  and  may  in  the  end  be  able 
to  dispense  with  liini. 

“It  can  be  answered  that  even  though  machines  should  liear 
never  so  well  and  speak  never  so  wisely,  they  will  always  do  the 
one  or  the  other  for  our  advantage,  not  tlicir  own,  tliat  man 
will  always  be  the  ruling  spirit  and  the  machine  the  servant.  . . . 
That  is  all  very  well.  But  the  servant  glides  by  imperceptible 
approaches  into  the  master;  and  we  have  come  to  such  a pass 
that,  even  now,  man  muvSt  sufler  terribly  on  ceasing  to  benefit 
the  machines. 

. . How  many  men  a’  this  hour  arc  living  in  a state  of 
bondage  to  the  machines?  1 low  inan\  spi  nd  their  whole  lives! 
from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  in  tending  them  by  night  and  da’^7 
Is  it  not  plain  that  the  machines  are  gaining  ground  upoil' 
when  we  reflect  on  the  increasing  number  of  those  who  are 
bound  down  to  them  as  sla\cs,  and  of  those  who  devote  their 
whole  souls  to  the  advancement  of  the  mechanical  kingdom? 

. . In  the  meantime  the  stoker  is  almost  as  much  a cook  for 
his  engine  as  our  own  cooks  are  for  ourselves.  Consider  also 
the  pitmen  and  coal  merchants  and  coal  trains,  and  the  men  who 
drive  them,,  and  the  ships  that  carry  coals — what  an  army  of 
servants  do  the  machines  thus  employ!  Are  there  not  probably 
more  men  engaged  in  tending  machinery  than  in  tending  men? 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


146 

Do  not  machines  cat  as  it  were  by  mannery?  Arc  we  not  our- 
selves creating  our  own  successors  in  the  supremacy  of  the 
^ earth?  daily  adding  to  the  beauty  and  delicacy  of  their  organis- 
ation, daily  giving  them  greater  skill  and  supplying  more  and 
more  of  that  self-regulating,  self-acting  power  which  will  be 
better  than  any  intellect?” 

In  all  this  it  is  not  hard  to  sec  an  expression  of  the  widespread 
horror  at  the  results  of  capitalist  machine  production,  a horror 
especially  widespread  among  intellectuals  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  and  which  Butler  shared  with  people  as  different  from 
himself  and  each  other  as  Blake,  Cobbett  and  Ruskin.  But  having 
said  so  much  Butler  remembered  that  first  tools  and  then  machines 
may  also  be  regarded  as  an  extension  of  the  human  body,  adapting 
it  to  new  purposes  and  enabling  it  to  increase  its  control  over  its 
environment.  Even  under  capitalism  machinery  has  a liberating 
as  well  as  an  enslaving  character.  This  argument  he  puts  into  the 
mouth  of  another  Erewhonian  author: 

“Civilisation  and  mechanical  progress  advanced  hand  in 
hand,  each  developing  and  being  developed  by  the  other,  the 
earliest  accidental  use  of  the  stick  having  set  the  ball  rolling, 
and  the  prospect  of  advantage  keeping  it  in  motion.  In  fact, 
macliincs  arc  to  be  regarded  as  the  mode  of  development  by 
which  human  organism  is  now  especially  advancing,  every 
past  invention  being  an  addition  to  the  resources  of  the 
human  body.  Even  community  of  limbs  is  thus  rendered 
possible  to  those  who  have  so  much  community  of  soul  as 
to  own  money  enough  to  pay  a railway  fare;  for  a train  is  only 
a seven-leagued  foot  that  five  hundred  may  own  ar  once.” 

i5utler  does  not  attempt  to  reconcile  the  two  viewpoints,  merely 
dll  '-urving  that  the  first  writer  “was  considered  to  have  the  best  of 
li"®*  and  I think  that  the  whole  section  reflects  very  exactly  not 
only  his  own  ambivalent  attitude  to  industriahsm  but  that  of 
the  Victorian  bourgeoisie  as  a whole,  the  mixture  of  pleasure, 
amazement  and  horror  at  tliis  thing  they  had  created,  with  its 
possibilities  of  leisure  and  wealth,  its  actual  accompaniment  of 
squalor  and  misery,  and  the  under-tones  of  menace,  relatively 
subdued  in  1870  but  never  quite  absent,  which  threatened  them 
with  destruction.  ^ 

1 Brewhon^  though  pubhshed  m 1872,  was  probably  written  before  the  Paris 
G>minunc. 


REASON  IN  REVOLT 


147 

All  this  is  impUed  rather  than  stated,  and,  immediately, 
Butler  seems  to  have  felt  that  the  Erewhonians  did  better  without 
machinery.  One  of  the  things  that  had  delighted  him  about  New 
Zealand  was  the  good  health  and  good  looks  of  the  people  there, 
the  “shaggy  clear-complexioned  men  with  the  rowdy  hats’\  and 
he  must  have  compared  them  with  the  town-dwelling,  machine- 
operating  inhabitants  of  England.  Butler  saw  men  free  and  happy 
without  machinery.  What  he  didn’t  see  was  that  the  life  o:  the 
New  Zealand  settlors  would  not  have  been  possible  at  all  without 
English  capital,  the  English  market  and  the  English  machine- 
made  goods  they  were  able  to  buy  with  their  wool.  Middle  class, 
shy  and  rather  ungainly  himself,  he  idealised  the  peasant  and  tlie 
aristocrat  much  as  Yeats  di<l  a generation  later.  Therefore  in 
Erewhon  he  created  the  Utopia  of  physical  perfection: 

“Lastly,  I should  say  that  the  people  were  of  a physical 
beauty  which  was  simply  amazing.  I never  saw  anything  in  the 
least  comparable  to  them.  The  women  werc^\  igorous,  and  had 
a most  majestic  gait,  their  heads  being  set  up  >n  theii*  shoulders 
with  a grace  beyond  all  power  of  expression.  . . 

“The  men  were  as  handsome  as  the  women  beautiful.  I have 
always  delighted  in  and  reverenced  beauty;  but  1 felt  simply 
abashed  in  the  presence  of  such  a splendid  type — ^a  compound 
of  all  that  is  best  in  l^.gyptian,  Greek  and  Italian.  The  children 
were  infinite  in  number,  and  exceedingly  merry;  I need  hardly 
say  that  they  came  in  for  their  full  share  of  the  prevailing 
beauty.” 

On  this  basis  Butler  built  an  entertaining  fantasy  of  topsey- 
turveydom  in  which  ill  health  is  regarded  as  a crime  and  savagely 
punished,  while  moral  shortcomings  are  a matter  for  pity  and 
careful  treatment.  Once  again  there  is  an  ambivalence:  negativelj^ 
there  is  extremely  telling  satire  on  English  criminal  justice  and'  *.1^ 
whole  unscientific  approach  to  crime,  but  behind  that  is  a pro- 
found feeling  that  beauty  and  good  health  and  good  luck  (in 
Erewhon  misfortune  is  also  pi-tii’.hable)  arc  the  supreme  blessings 
and  that  men  both  are  and  ought  to  be  rewarded  for  prissessing 
them  and  punished  for  not  possessing  them.  1 le  certainly  had  a 
full  measure  of  the  belief  of  his  class  that  if  a man  was  poor  or 
unfortunate  it -was  probably  las  own  fault. 

Butler’s  attitude  to  the  conventional  code  prevailing  in 
Victorian  society  was  similar.  The  great,  though  never  openly 


148  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

acknowledged  god  of  Erewhon  is  Ydgrun  (Grundy),  whose 
worship  consists  in  doing  what  the  world  does.  Butler  pokes  fun 
at  Ydgrun,  who,  he  knows  perfectly  well,  is  as  often  cruel  and 
absurd  in  Erewhon  as  in  England,  yet  he  concludes  that  on  the 
whole  she  is  the  best  practical  guide  for  life  and  that  the  ‘‘high 
Ydgrundites”,  that  is,  the  cultured  upper  classes,  “have  got  about 
as  far  as  it  is  in  the  right  nature  of  man  to  go”. 

“Take  her  all  in  all”,  he  concludes,  “shr»  was  a beneficient 
and  useful  deity,  who  did  not  care  how  much  she  was  denied 
so  long  as  she  was  obeyed  and  feared,  and  who  kept  hundreds 
of  thousands  in  those  paths  which  make  life  tolerably  happy, 
who  would  never  have  kept  there  otherwise,  and  over  whom 
a higher  and  more  spiritual  ideal  would  have  had  no  power.” 

Whether  he  is  discussing  religion  (the  Musical  Banks), 
education  (the  Colleges  of  Unreason)  or  any  other  institution, 
Butler’s  attitude  is  similar.  There  is  direct  satire,  there  is  an 
indirect  satire  by  granting  to  the  most  absurd  l’’rcwhonian 
institutions  their  special  and  unexpected  measure  of  good  sense, 
like  the  existence  of  a Chair  of  Worldly  ^"isdomin  the  Colleges  of 
Unreason,  and  finally,  wJicn  he  feels  that  his  class  has  been 
sufficiently  teased  and  irritated,  he  will  make  amends  in  some  way 
or  another  so  that  in  the  end  they  can  feel  that  they  are  really  good 
fellows  and  that  the  \v^orld  would  be  a poorer  place  without  them. 
At  once  bold  and  timid  he  is  like  a weak  swimmer,  forever 
striking  out  fr(;m  the  shore  and  as  often  heading  back  in  panic  the 
moment  he  finds  he  is  out  of  lus  depth.  His  criticism  is  family 
criticism,  never  going  far  beyond  what  the  rest  of  the  family 
will  regard  as  permissible.  It  is  none  the  less  well  directed  and 
entertaining  and,  up  to  a point,  valuable  criticism  for  all  that. 

‘ ,A  word  should  be  said  in  conclusion  about  the  machinery  of 
.i4ise  two  books.  Hrewhon  is  almost  the  last  of  the  old  style  place 
Utopias,  situated  in  some  as  yet  undiscovered  corner  of  the  earth. 
We  have  seen  that  this  was  the  result  of  the  special  circumstances 
of  Butler’s  life  in  New  Zealand.  As  a rule,  even  before  tliis,  the 
device  w^as  wearing  thin  as  the  blank  spaces  on  the  map  filled  up. 
Henceforth  new  machinery  was  called  for  and  Utopia  was  trans- 
ferred either  into  the  more  or  less  distant  future,  or,  as  in  Lytton’s 
book  to  an  underground  world,  or  even  to  another  planet. 
The  Coming  Race  is,  I think,  the  first  of  the  new  class  of  utopias  in 
this  sense,  just  as  Hrewhon  is  among  the  last  of  the  old. 


ClIAFfER  VI 


THE  DREAM  OF  WIIJJAM  MORRIS 


Here  too  industry  has  taken  on  a different  character.  The  icn  year  c>cle  seems  to 
ha\c  been  broken  down  now  that,  since  1870,  American  and  Cierman  coinpt  tition 
have  been  putting  an  cAd  to  English  monopoly  in  the  wotld  market.  In  the  main 
branches  of  industry  a depressed  state  of  business  has  picvailcd  since  1868,  while 
production  has  been  slowly  increasing,  and  now'  w'c  sctm  bi>th  here  and  in  America 
to  be  standing  on  the  verge  of  a ntw'  crisis  which  «n  J'.nglaiul  has  not  been  prtvs  Jed 
by  a (xiriod  of  prosperity,  'F  hat  is  the  scciet  <'f  the  sudtlen  though  it  has  been 
slowly  preparing  for  three  ^cais— but  the  present  sudden  Ltncigence  of  a s'^ciaiist 
movement  here. 

Ungii.s:  to  Bcbcl,  1884, 


T . Nem  Vrom  Bos/o;i 

BELLAMY'S  Jjiokhig  published  in  1888  by  a then 

little  known  American  novelist,  bad  very  miit'hlhc  same  sort 
of  immediate  success  as  Calx  t’s  I '’oyage  ni  hark,  and  for  very  much 
the  same  sort  of  reason.  It  was  writitn  in  and  arose  from  a time  of 
swift  change  and  almost  intolerable  tension,  and  it  seemed  to 
many  to  point  to  a practical  solution  of  real  problems.  By  the 
mid-eighties  capitalism  had  made  immense  ad\ances  in  all  the 
leading  countries,  and  its  battle  with  the  working  class  that  it  had 
created  was  now  fairly  joined.  For  Imgland  this  world  advance 
meant  the  loss  of  a long-standing  world  monopoly,  the  so-called 
‘Great  Depression’,  and  a new  stage  in  working-class  political 
and  trade  union  activity.  In  Ciermany  and  France  mass  Socialist 
parties  were  beginning  to  grow  on  the  ruins  of  the  dead  First 
International.  In  all  these  countries  the  concentration  of  capital 
was  making  visible  the  first  signs  of  monopoly,  but  it  was  in  the 
U.S.A.  that  the  most  rapid  progress  and  the  clearest  signs  of  this 
monopoly  could  be  seen.  Between  18 5^  and  1889  industrial 
production  had  increased  fivefold,  to  reach  a total  of  over  nine 
billion  dollars:  the  great  empire  of  Standard  Oil  was  only  the 
most  startling  of  its  kind.  Writing  about  1887,  Bellamy  described 
this  process  as'well  as  the  fears  and  opposition  it  excited: 

“Meanwhile,  without  being  in  the  smallest  degree  checked 
by  the  clamour  against  it,  the  absorption  of  business  by  ever 


150  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

larger  monopolies  continued.  In  the  United  States  • . . there  was 
not,  after  the  beginning  of  the  last  quarter  of  the  century,  any 
, opportunity  whatever  for  individual  enterprise  in  any  import- 
ant field  of  industry,  unless  backed  by  great  capital.  . . . Small 
businesses,  as  far  as  they  still  remained,  were  reduced  to  the 
condition  of  rats  and  mice,  living  in  holes  and  corners,  and 
counting  on  evading  notice  for  the  enjoyment  of  existence. 
The  railroads  had  gone  on  combining  till  a few  great -syndicates 
controlled  every  rail  in  the  land.  In  manufactures,  every 
important  staple  was  controlled  by  a syndicate.  These  syndic- 
ates, pools,  trusts,  or  whatever  the  name,  fixed  prices  and 
crushed  all  competition,  except  when  combinations  as  vast  as 
themselves  arose.  Then  a struggle,  resulting  in  a still  greater 
consolidation,  ensued.” 

No  less  alarming  for  the  small  capitalists,  professional  people 
and  independent  producers  was  the  advance  and  militancy  of  the 
working  class.  The  Knights  of  Labour  reached  their  greatest 
membership,  about  700,000,  in  1886,  in  which  year,  also,  the 
American  Federation  of  Labour  was  founded:  for  some  years  there 
seemed  every  prospect  of  the  formation  of  a strong  American 
Labour  Party.  In  the  meantime  there  was  an  unprecedented 
outburst  of  strikes,  lb  quote  Bellamy  once  more: 

“Strikes  had  become  so  common  at  that  period  that  people 
had  ceased  to  enquire  into  their  particular  grounds.  In  one 
department  of  industry  or  another,  they  had  been  nearly 
incessant  ever  since  the  great  business  crisis  of  1873.  In  fact  it 
had  come  to  be  the  exceptional  thing  to  see  any  class  of 
labourers  pursue  their  avocation  steadily  for  more  than  a few 
months  at  a time.” 

Many  of  these  strikes  had  a character  more  or  less  political: 

“The  working  classes  had  quite  suddenly,  and  very  generally, 
become  infected  with  a profound  discontent  with  their  con- 
dition, and  an  idea  that  it  could  be  greatly  bettered  if  tliey  only 
knew  how  to  go  about  it.” 

Socialism  was  firmly  on  the  agenda,  in  America  as  well  as  in 
the  Old  World,  and,  as  Engels  commented  in  1886: 

“The  last  Bourgeois  Paradise  on  earth  is  fast  changing  into  a 
Purgatorio,  and  can  only  be  prevented  from  becoming,  like 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  I5I 

Europe,  an  Inferno  by  the  go-ahead  pace  at  which  the  develop- 
ment of  the  newly  fledged  proletariate  of  America  will  take 
place.” 

Such  was  the  background  of  Loofdng  Bachi^ard,  a background  of 
monopoly,  graft  and  speculation,  of  desperate  strikes  savagely 
repressed,  the  world  of  Rockefeller  and  Carnegie  and  of  the 
Hay  market  Martyrs,  railroaded  in  1884  after  the  explosion  in 
Chicago  of  a bomb  planted  by  the  police.  In  Bellamy's  New 
England,  industry  was  expanding  while  great  tracts  of  land  were 
passing  out  of  cultivation. 

To  Bellamy,  a kindly,  academic  man,  not  actively  associated 
with  the  movement  of  the  working  class,  all  this  violence,  greed 
and  selfish  conflict  was  extremely  distasteful.  It  was  untidy  and 
unreasonable,  and  it  was  the  tidiness  nnd  reason  of  sf)cialism  that 
most  appealed  to  him.  Its  triumph,  therefore,  would  be  the 
triumph  of  abstract  reason,  not  of  a revolutionary  class. 

^^I^oking  Backward^  although  in  form  a J^anciful  romance,  is 
intended,  in  all  seriousness,  as  a forecast,  in  accordance  witli 
the  principles  of  evolution,  (-»f  the  next  stage  in  the  industrial 
and  social  development  ot  humanity.” 

Early  in  the  book,  Bcllam)  explains  wliart  he  means  by  the 
principles  of  evolution.  His  hero,  Julian  West,  after  a Rip  Van 
VC^inkle  sleep,  wakes  to  find  himself  in  the  transformed,  socialist, 
Boston  of  the  year  2,000.  His  host  and  mentor.  Dr.  Leetc,  who  is 
ever  ready  to  explain'  everything  at  inordinate  length,  tells  him 
how  the  change  came: 

‘Early  in  the  last  centi  ry  the  evolution  was  completed  by 
the  final  consolidation  of  Jhc  entire  capiral  of  the  nation.  The 
industry  and  commerce  of  the  country,  ceasing  to  be  conducted 
by  a set  of  irresponsible  corporations  acxd  syndicates  of  private 
persons  at  their  own  caprice  and  for  their  own  profit,  were 
' intrusted  to  a single  syndicate  repn  senting  the  people,  to  be 
conducted  in  the  common  interest  for  the  common  profit.  The 
nation,  that  is  to  say,  organised  as  one  great  business  cor- 
poration in  which  all  other  corporations  were  absorbed;  it 
became  the  .one  capitalist  in  place  of  all  other  capitalists,  the 
sole  employer,  the  final  monopoly  in  which  all  previous  and 
lesser  monopolies  were  swallowed  up,  a monopoly  in  the 
profits  and  economies  of  which  all  citizens  shared.  . . / ” 


IJ2  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

‘Such  a stupendous  change  as  you  describe/  said  I,  ‘did 
not,  of  course,  take  place  without  great  bloodshed  and  terrible 
convulsions?* 

“ ‘On  the  contrary,*  replied  Dr.  Leete,  ‘there  was  absolutely 
no  violence.  The  change  had  been  long  foreseen.  Public 
opinion  had  become  fully  ripe  for  it,  and  the  whole  mass  of 
the  people  was  behind  it.  There  was  no  more  possibility  of 
opposing  it  by  force  than  by  argument,*** 

It  is,  in  fact,  an  early  and  corrci;pondingly  naive  exposition  of 
the  now  familiar  doctrine  of  super-imperialism,  the  idea  that 
monopoly  capitalism,  by  eliminating  competition,  will  mechanic- 
ally and  painlessly  transform  itself  into  its  opposite.  And, 
inevitably,  the  quality  of  the  socialism  in  Bellamy*s  Utopia  is 
coloured  by  its  mechanical  derivation.  The  flat  equality,  the  almost 
military  regimentation  of  labour,  the  bureaucratic  organisation, 
the  rigidity  of  life,  the  value  placed  upon  mechanical  inven- 
tions for  their  own  sake  ate  part  of  his  vision  just  because  he  has 
failed  to  grasp  the  difference  in  kind  between  capitalism  and 
communism.  In  the  year  2,000,  according  to  Bellamy,  everyone  is 
to  live  pretty  much  as  the  comfortable  middle  classes  of  Boston 
lived  in  1886 — and  like  it. 

It  was  this,  probably,  as  much  as  its  merits,  which  gave  'Looking 
'Backward  its  extraordinary  popularity.  At  a time  when  the 
professional  classes  and  the  small  producers,  who  were  still  very 
numeioLis,  felt  caught  between  the  Trusts  and  the  militant 
workers,  they  w^cre  oflered  a prospect  of  Advance  VC'ithout  Tears, 
a socialism  wliich  did  not  force  them  to  take  sides  in  the  battle. 
Bellamy  was  careful  to  disclaim  any  connection  with  the  working- 
class  movement,  “the  followers  of  the  red  flag”  as  he  calls  them: 

“ ‘They  had  notliing  to  do  with  it  [the  change]  except  to 
hinder  it,  of  course,*  replied  Dr.  Leete.  ‘They  did  that  very 
effectually  while  they  lasted,  for  their  talk  to  disgusted  people 
avS  to  deprive  the  best  considered  projects  for  social  reform  of 
a hearing.*** 

The  Populists  and  Grangeites,  trying  to  organise  the  farmers 
and  small  men  against  the  trusts,  were  then  at  their  most  influen- 
tial: a few  years  later,  under  Bryan,  they  came  near  to  capturing 
the  Democratic  Party.  The  People  versus  the  Trusts,  Man  versus 
Money,  were  the  popular  slogans.  It  was  to  this  public  that 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  153 

BcUamy'came  as  a revelation,  giving  a scientific  and  evolutionary 
colour  to  what  was  really  a hopeless  attempt  to  arrest  the  advance 
of  monopoly  by  returning  to  a more  primitive  order  of  things. 
And  at  the  same  time,  his  book  had  certain  merits:  in  spite  of  what 
now  seems  an  intolerably  pretentious  and  solemn  style,  it  is  not 
without  telling  phrases  and  whole  paragraphs  of  acute  and 
damaging  criticism  of  both  the  institutions  and  effects  of  capital- 
ism, And  it  does  at  least  set  up  standards  more  civilised  than  those 
of  capitalism,  callihg  attention  to  the  possibility  of  ending  com- 
petition and  of  its  replacement  by  human  co-operation  in  a class- 
less society,  liowevcr  frigidly  that  society  might  be  conceived. 

For  all  these  reasons,  and  perhaps  because  at  this  moment 
any  book  that  seemed  to  offer  a hope  would  have  been  welcomed, 
looking  backward  was  successful  beyond  anything  that  Bellamy 
could  have  expected.  In  America  hundreds  of  thousands  of  copies 
were  sold  in  a tew  years.  By  1891  Dutch,  Italian,  French,  (rcrman 
and  Portugese  translations  had  appeared.  The  Imglish  edition, 
first  published  in  1889,  attracted  almost  as ‘much  attention  as 
the  American  had  done.  Bellamy  came  tc^  be  regarded  in  the 
U.S.A.  almost  as  the  inventor  of  i,ocialism  and  to  be  accepted  as 
the  leader  of  a political  party  whose  objective  v^as  to  tutn  the 
fiction  of  lj>oking  Backward  intv>  realit) . hven  in  England,  where 
socialism  had  had  a longer  history  and  where  Marxism  was  better 
known,  there  was  a strcing  tendency  for  Bellamy’s  picture  of  life 
under  sc^cialism  to  be  accepted  as  authoritative. 

It  was  for  this  reason  that  William  Morris  made  it  the  subject 
of  a long  and  higiii/  critical  rc\icw  in  the  Socialist  League 
journal,  'I'he  Commonweal^  on  January  22nd,  1889.  1 propose  to 
quote  from  this  review  at  ler  ^th,  because  it  seems  to  me  to  state 
perfectly  the  case  against  Bellamy,  because  it  illustrated  very 
clearly  Morris’  own  view  not  only  of  Bellamy  but  of  the  nature 
of  socialist  society,  and  because  it  is  hardly  known,  and,  indeed 
hardly  accessible,  to  readers  of  the  present  day.  After  a few  general 
remarks  Morris  explains  that  since 

“Socialists  and  non  Socialists  have  been  so  much  impressed 
with  the  book,  it  seems  to  me  necessary  that  The  Commonweal 
should  notice  it.  For  it  is  a ‘Utopia*.  It  purports  to  be  written 
in  the  year.  2,000,  and  to  describe  the  state  of  society  after  a 
gradual  and  peaceful  revolution  has  realised  the  Socialism 
which  to  us  is  in  fact  in  but  the  beginning  of  its  militant  period. 


154  the  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

It  requires  notice  all  the  more  because  there  is  a danger  in  such 
a book  as  this:  a twofold  danger;  for  there  will  be  some  tem- 
peraments to  whom  the  answer  given  to  the  question  ‘How 
shall  we  live  then?*  will  be  pleasing  and  satisfactory,  others  to 
whom  it  will  be  displeasing  and  unsatisfactory.  The  danger  to 
the  first  is  that  they  will  accept  it  with  all  its  necessary  errors 
and  fallacies  (which  such  a book  must  abound  in)  as  conclusive 
statements  of  facts  and  rules  of  action,  which  will  warp  their 
efforts  into  futile  directions.  The  danger  to  the  second,  if  they  are 
but  enquirers  or  young  Socialists,  is  that  they  also  accepting 
its  speculations  as  facts  will  be  inclined  to  say,  ‘If  that  is 
Socialism,  we  won’t  help  its  advent,  as  it  holds  out  no  hope 
to  us.’  . . . 

“[Bellamy’s]  temperament  may  be  called  the  unmixed  modern 
one,  unhistoric  and  unartistic;  it  makes  its  owner  (if  a socialist) 
perfectly  satisfied  with  modern  civilisation,  if  only  the  injustice, 
misery  and  waste  of  class  society  could  be  got  rid  of;  which 
half  change  seems  possible  to  him.  The  only  ideal  of  life  which 
such  a man  can  see  is  that  of  the  industrious  professional  middle- 
class  man  of  today,  purified  from  their  crime  of  complicity  with 
the  monopolist  class,  and  become  independent  instead  of 
being,  as  they  are  now,  parasitical.  . . . 

“It  follows  naturally  from  the  author’s  satisfaction  with  the 
best  part  of  modern  life  that  he  conceives  of  the  change  to 
Socialism  as  taking  place  without  any  breakdown  of  that  life, 
or  indeed  disturbance  of  it,  by  means  of  the  final  development 
of  the  great  private  monopolies  which  arc  such  a noteworthy 
feature  of  the  present  day.  He  supposes  that  these  must 
necessarily  be  transformed  into  one  great  monopoly  which  will 
include  the  whole  people  and  be  worked  for  the  benefit  of  the 
people.  . . . 

“The  great  change  having  thus  peaceably  and  fatalistically 
taken  place,  the  author  has  put  forward  his  scheme  of  the 
organisation  of  life;  which  is  organised  with  a vengeance. 
His  scheme  may  be  described  as  State  Communism,  w(>rked  by 
the  vast  extreme  of  national  centralisation.  The  underlying  vice 
in  it  is  that  the  author  cannot  conceive,  as  aforesaid,  anything 
else  than  the  machinery  of  society,  and  that,  doubtless  naturally, 
he  reads  into  the  future  of  society,  wliich  he  tells  ,us  is  unwaste- 
fully  conducted,  that  terror  of  starvation  which  is  the  necessary 
accompaniment  of  a society  in  which  two-thirds  or  more  of  its 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  155 

labout-power  is  wasted:  he  fel/s  us  that  every  man  is  free  to 
choose  his  own  occupation  and  that  work  is  no  burden  to 
anyone,  the  impression  which  he  produces  is  that  of  a huge 
standing  army,  tightly  drilled,  compelled  by  some  mysterious 
fate  to  unceasing  anxiety  for  the  production  of  wares  to  satisfy 
every  caprice,  however  wasteful  and  absurd,  that  may  cast  up 
among  them. 

“As  an  illustration  it  may  be  mentioned  that  everybody  is 
to  begin  the  serious  work  of  production  at  the  age  of  21,  work 
three  years  as  a labourer,  and  then  choose  his  skilled  occupation 
and  work  till  he  is  45,  when  he  is  to  knock  off  his  work  and 
amuse  himself  (improve  his  tnind,  if  he  has  one  left  him). 
HeavenI  Think  of  a man  of  45  changing  all  his  habits  suddenly 
and  by  compulsion!  . . . 

“In  short,  a machine  life  is  the  best  which  Bellamy  can 
imagine  for  us  on  all  sides;  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  then 
that  his  only  idea  of  making  labour  tolerable  is  to  decrease  the 
amount  of  it  by  means  of  fresh  and  ever  fresh  developments  of 
machinery.  . . . 

“I  believe  that  ihe  ideal  of  the  future  does  not  point  to 
the  lessening  ol  man’s  energy  by  the  rcductior  of  labour  to  a 
minimum,  but  rather  to  a reduction  of  pain  in  labour  to  a 
minimum,  so  small  that  it  will  cease  to  be  pain.  ...  In  this 
part  of  his  scheme,  therefore,  Mr.  Bellamy  worries  himself 
unnecessarily  in  seeking  (with  obvious  failure)  some  incentive 
to  labour  to  replace  the  fear  of  starvation,  wliich  is  at  present 
our  only  one,  whereas  it  cannot  be  too  often  repeated  that  the 
true  incentive  to  happy  and  useful  labour  must  be  pleasure 
in  the  work  itself.  . . . 

“It  is  necessary  to  point  out  that  there  arc  some  Socialists 
who  do  not  think  that  the  problem  of  the  organisation  of  life 
and  necessary  labour  can  be  dealt  with  by  a huge  centralisation, 
worked  by  a kind  of  magic  for  which  no  one  feels  himself 
responsible;  that  on  the  contrary  it  will  be  necessary  for  the  unit 
of  administration  to  be  sn.  enough  for  every  citizen  to  feel 
himself  responsible  for  its  details,  and  be  interested  in  them,i 
that  the  individual  man  cannot  shuffle  off  the  business  of  life 
on  to  the  shoulders  of  an  abstraction  called  the  State,  but  must 
deal  with  it  in  conscious  association  with  each  other.  That 
variety  of  life  is  as  much  an  aim  of  true  Communism  as  equality 
1 Compare  the  views  of  Winstanlcy,  Godwin,  Spence. 


156  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

of  condition,  and  that  nothing  but  an  union  of  these  two  will 
bring  about  real  freedom.  . . . And  finally,  that  art,  using  that 
. word  in  its  widest  and  due  signification,  is  not  a mere  adjunct 
of  life  which  free  and  happy  men  can  do  without,  but  the 
necessary  and  indispensable  instrument  of  human  happiness.” 

Morris,  with  his  strongly  creative  mind,  could  not  rest  content 
with  a mere  criticism  of  Bellamy's  utopia.  To  him  Looking 
'Backward  was  a challenge  which  he  could  only  ^answer  by  giving 
his  own  picture  of  life  under  communism,  fully  aware  as  he  was 
of  the  errors  and  fallacies  which  such  a book  must  abound  in  and 
quite  prepared  to  face  responsibility  for  his  own.  It  seems  clear 
that  Looking  Backward  provided  the  stimulus  for  News  from 
Nowhere^  which  began  to  appear  as  a serial  in  The  Commonweal  on 
January  nth,  1890. 

2.  News  From  Nowhere 

If,  as  I have  suggested,  Luooking  Backward  was  the  immediate 
provocation  that  led  Morris  to  write  Nen^s  from  Wowhere^  it  seems 
no  less  clear  that  he  was  only  putting  into  form  and  words 
something  that  had  long  been  maturing  in  his  thoughts.  There  is, 
in  the  closing  pages  of  A Dream  of  John  Ball,  published  also  in 
The  Commonweal^  in  1886,  a plain  hint  that  some  such  complemen- 
tary tale  was  being  planned,  when  John  Ball  says  in  parting: 

‘T  go  to  life  and  death  and  leave  thee;  and  scarce  do  I know 
whether  to  wish  thee  some  dream  of  the  days  beyond  thine  to 
tell  thee  what  shall  be,  as  thou  has  told  me,  for  I know  not  if 
that  shall  help  or  hinder  thee.” 

Having  projected  us  into  the  past  and  thence  carried  us  forward 
in  time,  it  was  only  logical  for  Morris  to  move  into  the  futuie  and 
then  look  back,  all  the  more  since  the  socialist  future  seemed  to 
him  in  many  ways  akin  to  the  feudal  past  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

We  know,  too,  that  the  kind  of  life  he  describes  in  News  from 
Nowhere  had  long  been  impheit  in  his  whole  work,  in  his  archi- 
tectural theory  and  practice  and  in  his  craftsmanship  no  less  than 
in  his  poems  and  tales.  Perhaps  this  appears  most  clearly  in  a 
letter  written  as  early  as  1874: 

“Surely  if  people  lived  five  hundred  years  instead  of  three- 
score and  ten  they  would  find  some  better  way  of  living  than  in 
such  a sordid  loathsome  place,  but  now  it  seems  nobody’s  busi- 
ness to  try  to*  better  things — ^isn’t  mine  you  see,  in  spite  of  all 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  IJ7 

my  gfumbling — ^but  look,  suppose  people  lived  in  little  com- 
munities among  gardens  and  green  fields,  so  that  you  could  be 
in  the  country  in  five  minutes’  walk,  and  had  few  wants,  almo.st 
no  furniture  for  instance,  and  no  servants,  and  studied  the 
(difficult)  art<:  of  enjoying  life,  and  finding  out  what  they 
really  wanted;  then  1 tliink  one  might  hope  civilisation  had 
really  begun.” 

« 

In  this  letter,  Vtktcn  long  before  Morris  was  conscious  of 
being  a socialist,  the  germ  of  News  from  Nowhere  is  already  appar- 
ent, not  least  in  the  casual  phrase  about  ‘no  scrvants\  It  is  not 
easy  for  us  to  realise  today  how  revolutionary  such  an  idea  was, 
coming  from  a well-to-do  man  in  1874,  wlicn  domestic  .servants 
were  taken  as  a matter  (^f  course  by  c^  ery  section  above  the  lowest 
strata  of  the  middle  class.  But  Morris  was  already  feeling  towards 
the  idea  that  inequality  of  condition  wa^  something  unworthy 
of  humanity,  degrading  equally  exploiter  and  exploited,  an  idea 
which  he  was  afterwards  constantly  enlarging,  as,  for  example, 
in  Art  and  Socialism.  And  ever  in  1874  I think  he  would  have  said 
that  it  was  no  less  degrading  to  be  the  servant  to  a machine  than  to 
an  individual.  T he  great  difference  between  Morris  then  and  in 
1890  was  that  by  this  latter  date  he  had  made  it  his  business  to 
try  to  belter  things  and  had  discovered  in  socialism  the  way  to 
go  about  it. 

In  considering  the  origin  of  News  jrom  Noirherc  it  is  important 
to  remember  that  in  many  <)f  its  details  it  was  in  line  with  a strong 
current  of  thought  m the  last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  centuiy. 
From  1871  to  1884  Ruskin  w'as  writing  his  Vors  iJavigera^  “letters 
to  the  workmen  and  labour^  of  Great  Britain”,  setting  out  the 
objectives  of  hjs  Guild  of  St,  George,  j scheme  for  a network  of 
utopian  communities  in  which  life  was  to  be  very  like  that 
described  in  News  from  Nowhere,  though  Ruskin,  with  his  aristo- 
cratic socialism,  never  envisaged  the  fellowship  and  the  demo- 
cratic equality  of  life  which  was  for  Morris  the  crown  of  the 
work.  Morris  understood  tc^,  and  perhaps  the  failure  of  the 
Guild  helped  to  teach  him,  that  any  attempt  at  the  piecemeal 
transformation  of  society  by  such  methods  was  futile.  Neverthe- 
less. while  he  passed  far  beyond  Ruskin,  he  learnt  much  from  him 
and  always  regarded  him  with  the  utmost  respect. 

We  know  also  that  in  1885  he  was  reading,  with  peculiar 
interest,  Richard  Jefferies’  After  London: 


158  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

“I  read  a queer  book  called  After  London  coming  down: 
I rather  liked  it:  absurd  hopes  curled  round  my  heart  as  I read 
^ it.  I rather  wish  I were  thirty  years  younger:  I want  to  see  the 
game  played  out.” 

Here  we  touch  one  of  Morris*  most  characteristic  thoughts:  he 
was  convinced  capitalism  was  nearing  its  end:  either  there  would 
be  revolution  and  the  birth  of  a socialist  society,  ot  some  vast 
catastrophe,  a reversion  to  barbarism  and  a beginning  all  over 
again.  Such  was  his  hatred  of  capitalism  and  its  ‘modern  civil- 
isation’ that  he  preferred  even  this  solution  to  its  continued 
existence.  There  were  times  when  he  seemed  even  to  welcome  the 
idea  of  catastrophe.  In  a letter  of  this  same  year  he  wrote: 

“How  often  it  consoles  me  to  think  of  barbarism  once  more 
flooding  the  world.  ...  I used  to  despair  once  because  I 
thought  what  the  idiots  of  our  day  call  progress  would  go  on 
perfecting  itself:  happily  1 know  now  that  all  that  will  have  a 
sudden  check — sudden  in  appearance  T mean  -‘as  it  was  in  the 
days  of  Noc.’” 

More  often,  however,  he  looked  forward  to  the  positive  solution 
of  socialism,  and  realised  that  such  a beginning  again  would 
solve  nothing.  As  he  wrote  in  New  from  Nowhere: 

“Nor  could  it  [Commercialism]  have  been  destroyed  other- 
wise; except,  perhaps,  by  the  whole  ()f  society  gradually  falling 
into  lower  depths,  till  it  at  last  reached  a condition  as  rude  as 
barbarism,  but  lacking  both  the  hope  and  the  pleasure  of  bar- 
barism. Surely  the  sharper,  shorter  remedy  was  the  happiest.” 

It  was  precisely  the  picture  of  such  a society,  with  the  rudeness 
of  barbarism  but  none  of  its  hfipcs,  the  poverty  of  the  Middle 
Ages  but  none  of  its  vitality,  which  Morris  found  in  After  Ijondon, 
Here  Jefferies  describes  with  extraordinary  vividness  the  face  and 
the  life  of  an  England  suddenly  denuded  of  most  of  its  people  by 
some  never-explained  catastrophe.  The  woodlands  creep  back, 
river  valleys  become  lakes  or  swamps,  remnants  of  population 
survive  here  and  there  in  tiny  principalities  and  city  states,  all 
but  the  crudest  and  most  necessary  arts  and  crafts  have  vanished, 
corruption,  serfdom  and  endless  petty  warfare  t are  universal. 
Just  at  the  close  (the  book  was  never  finished)  there  is  a hint  of  a 
new  kind  of  state  arising  among  the  barbarian  shepherd  tribes  on 
the  perimeter. 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  I59 

Here,  certainly,  was  dcstniction  it  was  in  the  days  of  Noe’’, 
and  much,  in  spite  of  the  degeneration  described,  that  Morris 
would  certainly  have  found  more  to  his  taste  than  the  civilisation 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  Still,  the  prospect  it  held  out  was  only 
a second  best  and  at  most  times  he  believed  that  such  a desperate 
remedy  could  be  avoided.  After  l^ondon  is,  as  it  were,  a Nen^s  from 
Nowhere  in  reverse — capitalism  indeed  destroyed  but  no  socialism 
to  take  its  place.  There  is  no  doubt  T think,  that  it  was  among  the 
influences  that  went  to  the  final  shaping  of  Morris’  Utopia. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know,  tliough  there  seems  no  direct 
evidence,  if  Morris  also  read  another  utopian  romance  of  the 
period,  A Crystal  Age  by  W.  H.  Hudson,  first  published  in  1887. 
It  is  at  the  least  possible  that  he  did  so,  since  Hudson  was  friendly, 
among  others,  with  Wilfred  Scawen  Blunt  and  R.B.Cimninghamc 
Graham,  through  cither  of  whom  Morris  might  have  heard  of 
him.  However  that  may  be,  A Crystal  has  certainly  matures 
which  remind  us  of  News  from  Nowhere,  with  the  socialism,  of 
course,  always  excluded.  The  most  striking  thing,  perhaps,  about 
A Crystal  Age  is  its  complete  lack  of  relation  to  anything  in  the 
existing  world,  except  bj  antipathy.  It  is  a new  creation,  so  remote 
from  us  in  time  and  feeling  that  the  very  memory  of  any  kind  of 
society  now  existing  has  been  entirely  lost. 

What  Hudson  does  notably  share  with  Morris  is  the  conception 
of  an  epoch  of  rest,  a period  in  which  the  world  stands  still. 
This  time  of  rest,  which  for  Morris  is  no  more  than  a temporary 
and  relative  pause  between  periods  of  more  marked  change,  and  is 
even  so  hardly  consistent  with  his  generally  dialectical  outlook, 
is  for  Hudson  unbroken,  as  far  as  can  be  seen,  in  eitlicr  direction. 
He  describes  a world  of  small,  s attcred,  self-sufficient  and  entirely 
permanent  families,  each  with  its  own  ‘house’.  The  individuals 
come  and  go,  but  their  numbers  remain  unchanged  and  the 
‘house’,  the  material  basis  and  framework  within  which  it  exists, 
is  eternal,  so  that  almost  one  might  sav  that  the  family  exists  to 
serve  the  ‘house’  and  not  the  ‘house’  to  preserve  the  family. 
Since  the  family  is  self-sufficieix^  here  is  no  question  of  exchange 
or  exploitation;  in  this  sense  it  might  be  said  that  a vaguely 
socialist  element  is  present,  and  the  scene  in  which  the  hero, 
a visitor  from  .our  own  time,  offers  money  as  payment  for  a 
suit  of  clothes  might  have  been  written  by  Morris,  except  that  his 
people  arc  better  mannered  and  less  censorious  than  Hudson’s. 
The  two  Utopias  are  similar,  too,  in  the  absence  of  any  great 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


z6o 

cities,  in  the  part  played  by  art,  by  handicrafts  and  the  new 
pleasure  which  their  people  have  found  in  necessary  work. 

Yet  Morris  goes  far  beyond  Hudson  not  only  in  his  sense  of 
history  but  in  the  depth  of  his  human  feeling.  For  him  Utopia  is  not 
somewhere  remote  in  time  or  space  but  grows  out  of  existing 
society  through  struggle,  bearing  clear  traces  of  that  struggle  and 
of  its  whole  past.  Nor  have  its  people  really  much  in  common  with 
the  ascetic,  humourless  and  almost  sexless  creatures  of  Hudson. 
No  one  could  imagine  himself  living,  or  could'wish  to  live,  in  this 
Utopia  any  more  than  one  couM  live  in  a stained-glass  window, 
but  Morris’  has  seemed  to  thousands  not  only  possible  but  worth 
fighting  for. 

In  one  other  respect,  however,  there  is  a resemblance  worth 
mentioning.  This  is  the  dream  structure.  Hudson’s  hero  ‘wakes’ 
from  a sleep  prolonged  through  countless  centuries,  and  we  are 
not  told  directly  that  the  substance  of  the  book  is  a dream.  Yet  this 
may  perhaps  be  inferred  from  a number  of  details  not  otherwise 
explicable,  as  in  the  concluding  pages  in  wliich  he  describes  his 
own  death.  Bellamy,  and,  later,  Wells  use  the  device  of  a prolonged 
sleep,  but  rationalise  it,  giving  it  a pseudo-scientific  explanation 
which  is  all  of  a piece  with  the  spuriously  scientific  character  of 
their  Utopias.  Such  a device  would  have  been  quite  out  of  charac- 
ter for  Morris,  the  scientific  nature  of  whose  imagination  does  not 
rest  on  a mass  of  superficial  detail  but  on  his  mastery  of  the  law  of 
movement  of  human  society.  Further,  he  was  soaked  in  the 
Lterature  of  tlie  Middle  Ages  and  the  barbarian  North,  in  which 
the  magic  sleep  and  the  dream  with  a purpose  arc  famihar  devices: 
it  was  as  natural  for  liim  to  use  the  dream  for  his  picture  of 
Socialist  England  as  it  was  for  Langland  to  use  it  to  describe  the 
Harrowing  of  Hell. 

And  the  dream  was  more  to  Morris  than  a literary  device.  His 
imagination  was  primarily  a visual  one,  his  visual  memory,  as  wc 
know,  quite  extraordinary.  It  seems  likely  that  anyone  so  con- 
stituted would  normally  have  vivid  and  realistic  dreams,  and 
Morris  in  the  opening  pages  of  A.  Dream  of  John  Ball  tells  us  that 
this  was  so  in  his  case,  describing  in  detail  the  kind  of  solid, 
coherent  and  architectural  dreams  which  he  enjoyed.  There  is  no 
reason  to  doubt  that  what  he  described  there  )vere  actual  ex- 
perinccs,  nor  that  it  was  those  experiences  which  finally  deter- 
mined the  form  of  his  two  great  socialist  romances. 

J.  W.  Mack^  writes  of  News  from  Nowhere,  with  that  faint  air 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  l6l 

of  patronage  and  disparagement  wliich  he  can  never  avoid  when 
speaking  of  Morris*  socialism: 

“It  is  a curious  fact  that  this  slightly  constructed  an4 
essentiaUy  insular  romance  has,  as  a Socialist  pamphlet,  been 
translated  into  French,  German  and  Italian,  and  has  probably 
been  more  read  in  foreign  countries  than  any  of  his  more 
important  works  in  prose  or  verse.” 

Today  it  seems  cuxious  that  Mackail,  who  with  all  his  faults  as  a 
biographer  really  loved  and  respected  Morris,  could  not  see,  what 
has  been  clear  to  thousands  of  workers  in  many  countries,  that 
Neti’s  Jrof?i  Non'hcre  was,  as  I have  tried  to  show,  tlie  outcome  of 
years  of  thought  and  preparation,  was  cast  in  a form  peculiarly 
suited  to  the  genius  of  Morris,  and  was,  in  fact,  the  crown  and 
climax  of  his  whole  work. 

True,  it  is  a thort  book,  true  it  was  written  quicklj  and  almost 
casually  amid  a press  of  other  activities,  true,  and  this  is  what  the 
Philistines  cannot  stomach,  it  was  written  for  a.S4)cialist  periodical 
as  ammunition  for  the  daily  battle.  All  this  only  prewes,  what 
ought  not  to  need  proof  bat  ^‘s  constantly  being  forgotten  or 
denied,  that  it  w’as  the  best  of  Morris  that  was  given  to  the 
working  class,  and  that,  great  as  he  was,  he  was  at  his  greatest 
as  a revolutionary.  Into  News  from  Nowhere^  as  into  no  other 
book,  Morris  packed  his  hopes  and  liis  knowledge,  all  that  he 
had  accomplished  and  become  in  a life  of  struggle. 

This  is  important  because,  though  wc  can  say  he  formally 
became  a Socialist  al  'ut  1883,  his  life  and  work  form  a seamless 
whole,  stretching  flawless  and  unbroken  from  his  early  romances 
to  the  socialist  works  of  his  mturity.  Morris  was  always  learning, 
deepening  his  understanding  • »f  the  world  and  of  his  own  beliefs, 
but  he  had  nothing  to  unlearn  since  at  each  new  stage  his  present 
was  only  the  fulfilment  of  his  past.  He  had  learned  from  Ruskin  to 
see  art  (in  the  broadest  sense)  not  as  a special  activity  producing  a 
special  kind  of  luxury  goods  but  as  an  essential  part  of  the  whole 
life  of  man.  ‘Art*  was  anything  that  was  made  by  men  who  were 
free  and  who  found  pleasure  in  their  work.  His  initial  quarrel 
with  the  mass  of  commercially  produced  goods  was  that  they  were 
made  without  joy  by  men  under  compulsion.  Such  a view  could 
not  but  lead  in  logic  to  a critique  of  existing  society,  and  Morris 
was  not  the  man  to  shrink  from  pushing  his  conclusions  home  to 
the  end. 


l6z  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

So  he  began  early  to  ask,  *‘What  do  men  need  to  be  happy?” 
Since  his  approach  was  clear  and  direct,  with  nothing  of  the 
mystic  or  idealist  about  it,  his  answers,  too,  were  simple  and 
materialist.  The  essentials  he  thought,  were  fellowship,  abundance 
of  the  necessaries  of  life,  sun,  air  and  free  space,  and  joy  in  the 
work.  He  described  such  a life  when  he  wrote  of  the  men  of  Burgh 
Dale  that  they  lived, 

“m  much  ease  and  pleasure  of  life,  though  not  delicately  or 
desiring  things  out  of  measure.  They  toiled  with  their  hands 
and  wearied  themselves;  and  they  rested  from  their  toil  and 
feasted  and  were  merry;  tomorrow  was  not  a burden  to  them, 
nor  yesterday  a thing  they  would  fain  forget;  life  shamed  them 
not,  nor  did  death  make  them  afraid.” 

To  all  this  one  thing  more  was  needed.  In  one  of  his  earliest 
tales,  Svend  and  Ihs  Brethren  (1856)  he  had  written  of  a people  who 
were  rich,  strong  and  numerous,  masters  of  all  arts,  possessed  of 
all  gifts: 

‘‘Should  not  then  their  king  be  proud  of  such  a people,  who 
seemed  to  help  so  in  carrying  on  the  world  to  its  consummate 
perfection,  which  they  even  hoped  their  grandchildren  would 
sec? 

“AlasI  Alas!  they  were  slaves — king  and  priest,  noble  and 
burger,  just  as  much  as  the  meanest-tasked  serf,  perhaps  even 
more  than  he,  for  they  were  so  willingly,  but  he  unwillingly 
enough.” 

Already  the  young  Morris  is  passing  judgment  on  the  pride  and 
the  misery  of  Victorian  England.  From  the  beginning  and 
constantly  more  clearly,  he  saw  that  no  man  could  be  happy  except 
in  a free  society.  Above  all  he  felt  this  in  his  own  experience,  for 
he  more  than  any  man  of  his  time  had  all  that  should  make  for 
happiness — strength  and  genius,  ample  means,  devoted  friends 
and  work  in  which  he  delighted.  Whatever  he  undertook  he  did 
well  and  everything  he  attempted  was  successful.  But  he  remained 
imsatisfied  because  he  could  not  enjoy  fully  what  could  not  be 
enjoyed  by  all.  “I  do  not  want  art  for  a few,  any  more  than 
education  for  a few,  or  freedom  for  a few”,  he  wrote. 

He  began,  therefore,  to  enquire  into  the  nature  of  this  freedom, 
to  study  the  history  of  those  times  and  societies  in  which  it  seemed 
the  most  to  be,  found  and  to  ask  why  it  was  so  lacking  in  the 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  163 

bourgeois  democracy  of  nineteenth-century  England.  Above  all  he 
studied  the  literature  and  life  of  Northern  Europe  in  its  heroic 
age,  and  in  Iceland  he  found  the  nearest  approach,  perhaps,  to  a 
free  society  that  the  world  had  yet  seen.  Quickly  he  grasped  the 
essential  fact  that  Icelandic  freedom  was  the  result  of  the  relative 
absence  of  class  divisions,  and,  once  he  had  realised  that  freedom 
meant  the  abolition  of  classes  he  was  on  the  road  to  conscious 
socialism.,  Morris  was  a man  passionately  in  love  with  the  class- 
less society,  deterrAincd  to  seek  and  ensue  it  by  all  possible  means; 
it  was  in  Marxism  that  he  found  the  road,  thereby  escaping  the 
heartbreak  and  frustration  which  D.  H.  Lawrence  suffered  in  our 
own  time  in  attempting  the  same  quest  without  the  essential  clue. 
Morris  loved  the  past,  and  vmderstood  it  better  than  1 awrenre 
did,  but  he  never  made  the  mistake  of  trying  to  return  to  it. 
When  he  visited  Iceland  it  was  to  gain  knowledge  and  strength 
for  the  struggle,  not  to  escape  from  the  present.  He  knew  that 
the  classless  society  of  the, future  could  only  emerge  from  what 
actually  exists  and  be  reached  through  the  roriHict  of  classes,  that 
is  to  say,  through  revolutkm. 

That  is  why,  though  he  called  himself  a socialist  when  speaking 
in  general  terms,  he  liked  to  use  the  word  communist  to  define 
precisely  the  kind  t)f  socialist  he  was.  And  he  used  the  word  not 
in  a pleasantly  antiquarian  way,  but  precisely,  with  a full  under- 
standing of  its  implications.  In  the  ’80s  these  implications  were 
mainly  two—  both  highly  disreputable.  I'irst,  a communist  was  an 
upholder  of  the  deeds  of  the  Paris  Commune,  then  a matter  of 
rcccni  history  and  uii  object  of  terror  to  the  bourgeoisie  as  the 
great  example  in  practice  of  the  dictatorship  o(  the  proletariat. 
Morris  never  tired  of  defen*  mg  the  Commune  and  glorifying  its 
memory.  Secondly,  a communist  was  one  who  acjepted  the  teach- 
ings of  Marx  as  expounded  in  The  Communist  Manifesto,  So  much 
nonsense  lias  been  written  about  Morris  that  it  is  still  necessary  to 
emphasise  the  point  that  he  was  a Marxist  as  he  understood 
Marxism — always  remembering  that  at  this  date  much  of  the 
important  work  of  Marx  and  Fngcls  was  not  available  to  English 
readers,  and  that  in  ]')raclice  English  socialism  was  still  in  the 
early  growing  stages,  making  many  blunders  from  lack  of  the  ex- 
perience, English  and  international,  which  is  now  at  our  disposal. 
Those  who  deny  Morris  the  name  of  Marxist  do  so  either  because 
they  are  so  ignorant  of  Marxism  that  they  cannot  recognise  it  as  it 
appears  in  his  writings,  expressed,  often,  in  his  very  individual 


164  the  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

Style,  or  because  they  have  formed  a preconceived  notion  of 
Morris  in  defence  of  which  they  are  prepared  to  distort  the  plain 
meaning  of  what  he  actually  wrote  and  said.^ 

He  was  a Marxist,  too,  in  the  sense  that  accepting  its  principles 
he  understood  no  less  the  need  for  practical  work.  From  1883, 
when  he  joined  the  Democratic  Federation,  to  his  death  in  1896, 
he  gave  his  time,  energy  and  money  without  stint  to  the  cause  of 
socialism.  It  received  the  best  of  his  writings  during  these  years, 
but  he  took  his  full  share  also  in  the  hard,  routine  activities  of  the 
movement,  as  well  as  in  the,  for  him,  far  more  unpleasant  internal 
controversies  with  which  the  Movement  was  torn.  To  give  an 
account  of  all  this,  or  of  the  history  of  the  Movement  at  this  time 
would  be  out  of  place  here  even  if  space  permitted  it.  It  need  only 
be  said  that  in  the  decade  before  Neips  fro?^  Noj^bere  England  was 
shaken  by  the  crisis  accompanying  the  ending  of  its  world 
monopoly,  that  it  was  a decade  of  mass  unemployment  and  unem- 
ployed struggles,  that  the  Trade  Union  Movement  was  revitalised 
under  a largely  socialist  leadership  and  tliat  socialism  itself,  in 
its  modern  form,  began  to  make  headway  here,  at  first  in  the  hands 
of  small  sects,  but  indirectly  influencing  wide  masses  of  workers. 

In  all  this  ferment  Morris  played  a central  part,  and  it  is  the 
events  of  this  decade  which  form  the  background  of  News  from 
Nowhere.  If  it  is  richer  in  content  than  all  earlier  utopias  this  is 
because  it  was  written,  not  in  isolation,  but  as  a part  of  the  actual 
struggle  by  one  who  was  both  a scientific  socialist  and  a great 
poet.  Morris’  is  the  first  Utopia  which  is  not  utopian.  In  all  its 
predecessors  it  is  the  details  which  catch  our  attention,  but  here, 
while  we  may  be  dubious  about  this  detail  or  that,  the  important 
things  are  the  sense  of  historical  development  and  the  human 
understanding  of  the  quality  of  life  in  a classless  society. 

Such,  in  outline,  were  the  elements  that  went  to  the  making  of 
News  from  Nowhere,  those  personal  and  peculiar  to  Morris  as  well 
as  those  arising  from  the  conditions  of  the  time,  while  some 


1 It  may  be  worth  while  to  give  one  example  of  such  distortion.  LU>yd  Eric  Grey, 
in  William  Morris,  Prophet  of  }!/igland*s  iV«'  Order,  declares  that  Morris  wrote  “to 
members  of  the  Marxian  Social  Democratic  Federation  that  anyone  who  believes 
that  ‘knife  and  fork*  economics  fakes  precedence  over  ‘art  and  cultivation  . . . docs 
not  understand  what  art  means.*  '*  What  Morris  wrote  ijlont  I RecamcaSonalitt,  p,  659, 
in  Cole’s  Nonesuch  volume)  was  precisely  the  opposite:  “Surely  anyone  who 
professes  to  think  that  the  question  of  art  and  cultivation  must  go  before  that  of  the 
knife  and  fork  (and  there  are  some  who  do  propose  that)  docs  not  understand  what 
art  means,  or  how  that  its  roots  must  have  a soil  of  a thriving  and  unanxious  life.” 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  165 

indication  has  been  given  of  their  interaction.  Now  it  is  time  to 
turn  to  the  book  itself,  and  to  note  first  of  all  that  it  was  intended 
to  do  a particular  job,  first,  to  replace  what  Morris  felt  to  be  the 
false  picture  of  life  under  socialism  drawn  by  Bellamy  with  what 
he  felt  to  be  a true  picture,  and,  second,  to  hearten  and  inspire  his 
comrades  by  a reminder  of  the  positive  goal  towards  which  their 
efforts  were  leading. 

For  this  purpose  he  did  not  need  to  imitate  or  try  to  rival  the 
mechanical  complfcations  of  Bellamy,  the  music  perpetually  on 
tap  after  the  manner  of  the  B.B.C.  (it  is  characteiistic  of  Bellamy 
that  almost  the  only  pleasure  mentioned  in  his  Utopia  is  what  wc 
call  to-day  ‘listening  to  the  wireless’),  the  vast  network  of  tubes 
along  which  completely  standardised  goods  were  delivered  to 
every  house  from  huge  central  warehouses,  the  ever  more  com- 
plex machines.  Such  things  might  have  a ceitain  appeal  in  1890, 
but  we,  who  have  seen  to-day  mechanical  marvels  more  than 
Bellamy  ever  dreamed  of,  know  how  little  5jLich  things  in  them- 
selves are  a guarantee  of  happiness.  Morris,  perfectly  aware  that 
socialism  implies  the  victory  of  man  over  his  environment,  is  not 
concerned  with  such  details,  which  arc  passed  over  with  the  most 
casual  of  references.  What  interested  him  was  not  tlic  compli- 
cation of  things^  but  the  new  jiroductive  relations  of  people  and  the 
transformation  of  human  relations  and  human  nature  which  they 
entail. 

Talking  to  old  Hammond,  the  historian  into  whose  mouth  he 
puts  the  tale  of  the  coming  of  socialism,  Morris  (who  tells  the 
story  throughout  in  the  first  person)  mentions  ‘human  nature’: 

“ ‘Human  nature!’  cried  the  old  boy  impetuously;  ‘what  human 

nature?  The  human  nature  of  paupers,  of  slaves,  of  slave 

holders,  or  the  human  nature  of  wealthy  freemen?  Which? 

Come,  tell  me  that!’” 

It  is  the  human  nature  of  wealthy  freemen  that  is  the  centre  and 
permanent  interest  of  News  from  Nowhere^  a human  nature  which 
poverty,  exploitation,  competition,  fear  and  greed  have  had  no 
part  in  shaping.  Given  these  conditions  he  is  able  to  show  how 
and  why  a classless  society,  in  which  the  evils  of  capitalism  have  so 
entirely  ended  as  to  have  ceased  even  to  be  a living  memory,  must 
produce  a new  quality  of  happiness,  a fellowship,  a toleration, 
a universal  courtesy  and  a delight  in  life  and  in  the  material  world 


i66 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


which  we  can  hardly  imagine.  It  is  because  Morris  had  the  unique 
combination  of  gifts  and  experience  which  made  this  feat  of  the 
imagination  possible  for  him  that  his  book  holds  its  place  among 
the  very  few  great  classics  of  socialism.  Patiently,  with  abundant 
and  detailed  proof,  he  demonstrates  how  one  evil  after  another 
which  is  commonly  set  down  to  ‘human  nature’,  is  in  reality  a 
consequence  of  capitalism. 

Some  critics  have  complained  that  the  picture  is  too  brightly 
drawn,  that  the  men  and  women  in  this  Utopia  arc  too  good  to 
be  true.  I do  not  find  any  substance  in  such  criticisms.  Morris  drew 
largely  from  within — he  felt  in  himself  and  saw  in  his  friends  the 
potentialities  of  happiness  and  social  living,  which,  stifled  and 
frustrated  as  they  were,  could  still  be  seen  clearly  enough.  And  he 
had  what  his  critics  lack,  a deep  understanding  of  the  boundless 
possibilities  of  socialism,  seeing  in  it  not  merely  a new  mechanism 
for  reorganising  society  but  also  a means  for  the  salvation  of 
souls. 

He  did  not  imagine,  nor  does  he  claim  in  Nem  from  Nowhere, 
that  socialism  will  make  men  perfect,  or  that  suffering  and  folly 
will  cease;  indeed,  he  goes  out  of  his  way  to  indicate  some  of  the 
kinds  of  unhappiness  that  he  thinks  will  still  be  possible.  But  he 
also  insisted  that  in  this  world  of  “clear  and  transparent  human 
relationships”  all  the  problems  of  life  would  be  encountered  on  a 
new  and  higher  level  and  would  be  capable  of  solution.  In  his 
Utopia  man  has  become  free  in  every  sense  of  the  word — 
master  of  his  environment  and  of  himself. 

“You  must  know  that  we  of  these  generations  are  strong  and 
healthy  of  body,  and  live  easily;  we  pass  our  lives  in  reasonable 
strife  with  nature,  exercising  not  one  side  of  ourselves  only,  but 
all  sides,  taking  the  keenest  pleasure  in  the  life  of  the  world.  So 
it  is  a point  of  honour  with  us  not  to  be  self-centred,  not 
to  suppose  that  the  world  must  cease  because  one  man  is  sorry; 
therefore  we  should  think  it  foolish,  or  if  you  will,  criminal,  to 
exaggerate  these  matters  of  sentiment  and  sensibility.  ...  So 
we  shake  off  these  griefs  in  a way  which  perhaps  the  sentimen- 
talists would  think  contemptible  and  unheroic,  but  which  we 
think  necessary  and  manly.” 

It  is  because  M<»rris  insisted  on  the  human  aspect  that  his  book 
reaches  such  heights,  but  for  that  very  reason  it  has  often  been 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  167 

misunderstood.  Refusing  to  allow  himself  to  be  drawn  into 
secondary  details  about  the  machinery  of  production  he  has  come 
to  be  regarded  as  a machine-wrecker,  and  a popular  view  of 
News  from  Nowhere  is  that  it  advocates  a return  to  medieval 
methods  in  which  everything  is  made  by  hand.  Now  it  is  true  that 
Morris,  with  his  extraordinary  skill  in  and  love  of  handicrafts  does 
stress  this  side  more  than  many  other  writers  would  have  done, 
and  I thiak  that  in  News  from  Nowhere  there  is  at  times  an  em- 
broidering and  elaboration  of  this  tlieme  which  may  even  upset 
the  balance  of  the  whole,  nor  must  wc  forget  that  he  was  writing 
a tale  and  not  a treatise.  At  the  same  time  it  is  quite  untrue  that  he 
was  hostile  to  macliinery  as  such:  what  he  argues  is  what  any 
socialist  would  argue,  that  under  capitalism  machinery  is  used  not 
to  benefit  the  working  population  but  to  exploit  them.  This  is  made 
clear  over  and  over  again,  for  example  jn  Useful  Work  versus 
Useless  Toil^  written  as  a pamphlet  for  the  Socialist  League  in  1885: 

“Our  epoch  has  invented  machines  Vhich  would  have 
appeared  wild  dreams  to  the  men  of  pt»st  ages,  and  of  those 
machines  we  have  as  yet  made  no  use. 

“They  arc  called  ‘labour-saving’  machine*'  - a commonly 
used  phrase  which  implies  what  we  expect  of  them;  but  wc  do 
not  get  what  wc  expect.  What  they  really  do  is  to  reduce  the 
skilled  labourer  to  the  ranks  of  the  unskilled,  to  increase  the 
number  of  the  ‘reserve  army  of  labour’— that  is,  to  increase 
the  precariousness  of  life  among  the  workers  and  to  intensify 
the  labour  of  those  who  serve  the  macliines  (as  slaves  to  their 
masters).  All  this  they  do  by  the  way,  v^hile  they  pile  up  the 
profits  of  the  employers  uf  labour,  ot  force  them  to  expand 
those  profits  in  a bitter  commercial  war  with  each  other.  In  a 
true  society  these  miracles  of  ingenuity  would  be  for  the  first 
time  used  for  minimising  the  amount  of  time  spent  in  unat- 
tractive labour,  which  by  their  means  might  be  so  reduced  as  to 
be  but  a very  light  burden  on  each  individual.  All  the  more  as 
these  machines  would  most  certainly  be  very  much  improved 
when  it  was  no  longer  a question  as  to  whether  their  improve- 
ment would  ‘pay’  the  individual,  but  rather  whether  it  would 

benefit  the  community.” 

• 

This  view,' which  Morris  held  consistendy,  can  be  traced  in 
News  from  Nowhere  by  anyone  ready  to  read  it  without  precon- 
ceived notions.  In  this  Socialist  England  “all  work  which  it 


i68 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


would  be  irksome  to  do  by  hand  is  done  by  immensely  improved 
machinery,”  This  does  not  now  involve  the  concentration  of 
population  in  vast  industrial  centres  because  “the  great  change  in 
the  use  of  mechanical  force”  makes  this  no  longer  necessary. 
“Why”,  they  ask,  “should  people  collect  together  to  use  power, 
when  they  can  have  it  at  the  places  where  they  live,  or  hard  by,  any 
two  or  three  of  them;  or  any  one  for  the  matter  of  that?”  Many 
utopian  writers,  from  More  onward,  have  seen  the  division 
between  town  and  country  as  a growing  evil:  ivfarx  declared  that 
it  was  one  of  the  tasks  of  socialism  to  end  this  division:  Morris  is 
perhaps  the  first  to  suggest  here  the  place  which  something 
comparable  to  the  vast  schemes  for  electrification  now  proceeding 
in  the  U.S.S.R.  could  have  in  all  this,  and  there  is  a more  genuinely 
scientific  attitude  in  these  scattered  hints  than  in  all  the  elabora- 
tions of  Bellamy, 

Morris  saw  this  change  in  the  use  of  mechanical  force  as  a 
factor  of  the  dialectic  of  history: 

“This  is  how  we  stand.  England  was  once  a country  of 
clearings  among  the  woods  and  wastes,  with  a few  towns 
interspersed,  which  were  fortresses  for  the  feudal  army, 
markets  for  the  folk,  gathering  places  for  the  craftsmen.  It  then 
became  a country  e^f  huge  and  foul  workshops  and  fouler 
gambling-dens,  surrounded  by  an  ill  kept,  poverty-stricken 
farm,  pillaged  by  the  masters  of  the  workshops.  It  is  now  a 
garden,  where  nothing  is  wasted  and  nothing  is  spoilt,  with  the 
necessary  dwellings,  sheds,  and  workshops  scattered  up  and 
down  the  country,  all  trim  and  neat  and  pretty.  For,  indeed,  wc 
should  be  too  much  ashamed  of  ourselves  if  we  allowed  the 
making  of  goods,  even  on  a large  scale,  to  carry  with  it  the 
appearance,  even,  of  desolation  and  misery.” 

For  the  rest,  he  is  content  to  admit  frankly  that  such  mechanical 
details  were  not  his  proper  concern,  as  when  he  saw  strings  of 
‘force  barges*  plying  on  the  Thames: 

“I  understood  pretty  well  that  these  ‘force  vehicles*  had  taken 
the  place  of  our  old  steam-power  carrying;  but  I took  good  care 
not  to  ask  any  questions  about  them,  as  I knew  well  enough 
both  that  I should  never  be  able  to  understand  how  they  were 
worked,  and  that  in  attempting  to  do  so  I should  betray  myself, 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  169 

or  get  into  some  complication  impossible  to  explain;  so  I merely 

said,  ‘Yes,  of  course,  I understand.’  ” 

This  whole  question  of  machinery  and  the  relation  of  town 
and  country  is  important  both  as  showing  how  far  Morris  is 
commonly  misrepresented  and  how  correctly  he  applied  the 
principles  of  Marxism.  His  Marxism  can  be  traced  similarly  in 
nearly  every  question  with  which  he  deals,  but  nowhere  more 
clearly  than  in  the*  famous  chapter  called  the  Change  Came^ 
which  describes  the  revolution  by  which  capitalism  was  over- 
thrown and  socialism  established. 

Morris  was  surrounded  on  the  one  hand  by  Fabians,  separating 
socialism  from  the  class  struggle  by  their  belief  in  the  gradual  and 
piecemeal  transformation  of  capitalism  from  within,  and  on  the 
other  by  Anarchists  who  equally  in  practice  abandoned  the  class 
struggle  by  treating  the  fight  for  socialism  as  a cons) piracy  in 
which  the  mass  of  the  workers  wxrc  to  play  at  .best  a very  second- 
ary part.  Though  he  made  tactical  errors  enough,  Morris  always 
held  the  Marxist  view  tliat  socialism  could  only  come  by  the 
seizure  of  power  by  the  working  class,  which  is  what  he  always 
meant  by  revolution.  It  is  such  a seizure  c;f  power  which  he 
describes  in  News  jrom  Isowhci't*^  drawing  on  the  exj^erience  of  the 
preceding  decade — the  unemployed  agitations,  the  free  spcecli 
fight  with  Bloody  Sunday  ^November  i^th,  1887)  as  its  climax, 
and  the  great  strike  wave  of  1888  wnth  its  accompanying  revitalis- 
ation of  Trade  L'nionism. 

Many  details  of  this  revolution,  which  Morris  put  in  the  year 
1902,  may  now  seem  obsulet  and  improbable,  but  as  a whole  it 
convinces  as  no  other  imagine  ry  account  of  a revolution  does,  and 
I think  the  total  success  comes  largely  from  die  way  in  which 
Morris  used  his  experiences  in  the  actual  movement,  just  as  the 
occasional  false  notes  reflect  the  weakness  and  immaturity  of  that 
movement.  The  success  comes,  too,  F om  the  careful  way  in  which 
he  had  studied  socialism  as  the  science  of  the  class  struggle.  In  his 
account  this  is  evident,  over  and  over  again,  when  he  shows  how 
the  workers  develop  in  struggle  from  merely  trade  union  con- 
sciousness, to  a higher,  political  consciousness,  in  the  part  played 
by  the  precipitating  incident  of  the  massacre  on  Trafalgar  Square, 
an  incident  which  produced  a qualitative  change  in  the  whole  re- 
lation of  forces,  and  in  the  way  in  which  the  workers  in  the  course 
of  the  revolution  throw  up  and  perfect  the  necessary  forms  and 


lyo  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

organisations  of  struggle.  Most  interesting  of  all,  perhaps,  is  the 
understanding,  incomplete  no  doubt  by  comparison  with  the 
later  teachings  of  Lenin,  but  remarkable  at  this  early  date,  of  the 
need  for  a revolutionary  Party: 

“But  now  that  the  time  called  for  immediate  action,  came 
forward  the  men  capable  of  setting  it  on  foot;  and  a vast 
network  of  workmen’s  associations  grew  up  very  speedily, 
whose  avowed  single  object  was  the  tiding  over  of  the  ship  of 
state  into  a simple  condition  of  Communism;  and  as  they 
practically  undertook  also  the  management  of  the  ordinary 
labour  war,  they  soon  became  the  mouthpiece  and  intermediary 
of  the  whole  of  the  working  classes.” 

On  the  character  of  the  State,  of  law,  of  colonial  oppression, 
he  is  equally  clear,  but  liis  insight  is  nowhere  keener  than  in  the 
passage  which  makes  use  of  the  Marxist  idea  that  the  revolution  is 
needed  to  transform  the  working  class  themselves  and  prepare 
them  for  socialism,  no  less  than  for  the  overthrow  of  capitalism: 

“The  sloth,  the  hopelessness,  and,  if  I may  say  so,  the 
cowardice  of  the  last  century,  had  given  place  to  the  eager, 
restless  heroism  of  a declared  revolutionary  period.  I will  not 
say  the  people  of  that  time  foresaw  the  life  we  are  leading  now, 
but  there  was  a general  instinct  amongst  them  towards  the 
essential  part  of  that  life,  and  many  men  saw  clearly  beyond  the 
desperate  struggle  of  the  day  into  the  peace  which  it  was  to 
bring  about.  . . . 

“The  very  conflict  itself,  in  days  when,  as  I told  you,  men  of 
any  strength  of  mind  cast  away  all  consideration  for  the  ordin- 
ary business  of  life,  developed  tlie  necessary  talent  amongst 
them.  Indeed,  from  all  I have  read  and  heard,  I doubt  whether, 
without  this  seemingly  dreadful  civil  war,  the  due  talent  for 
administration  would  have  developed  amongst  the  working 
men.  Anyhow,  it  was  there,  and  they  soon  got  leaders  far  more 
than  equal  to  the  best  men  among  the  reactionaries.” 

After  so  many  Utopias  which  are  mere  fantasy,  or  pedestrian 
guesswork,  or  a jumble  of  both,  one  which  is  scientific,  in  the 
sense  that  it  is  deduced  from  the  present  and  from  the  existing 
relations  of  the  classes,  cannot  but  be  of  outstanding  importance. 
But  this  would  not  be  enough  in  itself  to  give  Neji^s  from  Nonfhere 
the  position  it  now  holds.  This  is  rather  due  to  its  combination 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  I7I 

of  scientific  method  with  the  imagination  of  a great  poet,  so  that 
it  is  not  only  the  one  Utopia  in  whose  possibility  we  can  believe, 
but  the  one  in  which  we  could  wish  to  live.  Morris  put  into  it  not 
only  his  political  experiences  but  his  whole  knowledge  of  life,  his 
love  of  mankind  and  of  the  natural  world.  Further,  I think,  his 
years  in  the  Movement  enabled  him  to  identify  liimsclf  with  the 
people  not  only  politically  but  imaginatively,  so  that  in  Nem 
from  Nowhere  are  embodied  the  deep,  undying,  hopes  and  desires 
not  of  an  individual  only  but  of  a nation.  In  the  dialectical 
development  of  the  English  Utopia  it  forms  the  final  synthesis. 

We  have  seen  how  Utopia  begins  with  the  Land  of  Cokaygne  - 
the  serf’s  dream  of  a world  of  peace,  leisure  and  abundance — and 
we  saw,  too,  how  the  Cokaygne  dream  persisted  as  an  almost 
secret  tradition  under  the  surface,  while  the  mam  stream  of 
utopian  thought  passed  through  (jthcr  channels.  The  great 
literary  utopias  arc  the  work  of  the  learned,  of  philosophers  and 
not  seldom  of  prigs,  reflecting  indeed  liistoric^l  development  but 
only  indirectly  and  in  a distorted  form  the  struggles  and  hopes 
of  the  people.  With  Morris  the  two  streams  flow  together  again, 
not  just  because  he  was  a man  of  genius,  but  ]>ecause  he  had 
mastered,  imaginatively  and  intellectually  the  philosophy  of  the 
working  class.  One  small  example  may  illustrate  this. 

Solemn  critics  have  blamed  Morris  because  throughout  the 
whole  of  his  visit  to  the  future  the  sun  is  sinning,  “whereas”,  they 
say,  “we  know  that  in  England  it  always  rains  and  would  do  so 
under  any  social  system.”  Such  a criticism  can  only  be  made 
because  they  miss  the  point  that  the  England  of  News  from 
Nowhere  is  the  Land  of  Cokay>,mc,  and  in  Cokaygne  you  may  have 
whatever  weather  you  please.  The  unknown  poets  who  made  the 
many  variants  of  Cokaygne  weie  expressing  symbolically  the 
belief  that  man  can  become  the  master  instead  of  the  slave  of  his 
environment,  and  Morris,  identifying  himself  with  them,  uses 
naturally,  and  perhaps  unconsciously,  the  same  ancient  symbol 
to  express  one  of  the  most  important  truths  of  socialism. 

It  is  this  synthesis  of  the  most  ancient  with  the  most  modern 
wisdom,  of  ihe  intellect  with  the  imagination,  of  revolutionary 
struggle  with  a simple  love  of  the  earth  which  gives  News  from 
Nowhere  its  unique  literary  quality.  It  is  the  only  Utopia  which 
stirs  the  emotions  as  a whole:  More  can  move  us  by  his  account  of 
enclosures  but  not  by  his  account  of  Utopia:  Swift  can  make  us 
share  his  anger  and  pity  hi§  sufferings,  but  we  could  not  endure 


172 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


tlie  life  of  his  llouyhnhnms:  Morris  can  carry  us  with  him 
throughout.  We  feel  the  stir  and  wonder  of  the  awakening  into  a 
transformed  London,  the  joy  and  simplicity  of  the  new  life  there, 
the  stress  and  ferment  of  the  revolutionary  years,  the  glory  of  an 
England  rescued  and  cleansed  from  the  filth  and  degradation  of 
capitalism. 

At  every  point  Morris  recasts  his  own  experiences  into  the 
utopian  stuff,  and  never  more  completely  than  in  the  magical, 
leisurely  journey  up  the  Thames  wnh  which  tlie  book  ends.  It  was 
a journey  he  had  often  made  himself,  and  as  he  describes  this 
imaginary  voyage  we  know  how  at  every  point  of  his  real  voyages 
he  had  in  thought  stripped  away  the  vulgarities  and  desecrations 
of  bourgeois  profit-seeking  and  bourgeois  pleasures.  Through  his 
eyes  we  see  Hampton,  Reading,  Windsor,  Oxford,  not  as  they  arc, 
or  even  as  they  were  in  1890,  but  as  he  had  often  longed  for  them 
to  be.  At  the  end  of  the  voyage  stood  his  beloved  house  at 
Kelmscott,  the  house  which  he  could  never  entirely  enjoy  because 
he  could  never  forget  that  it  formed  part  of  the  suffering  world, 
but  which  the  world  could  equally  never  entirely  spoil  for  him, 
because  it  was  first  of  all  his  exceptional  capacity  for  happiness 
which  had  made  him  a socialist.  The  June  before  he  wrote  News 
from  Nowhere  he  had  rejoiced  at  Kelmscott  in  a record  haysel: 

“Haymaking  is  going  on  like  a house  afire;  I should  think 
such  a hajtimc  has  seldom  been;  heavy  crops  and  wonderful 
weather  to  get  it  in.  For  the  rest  the  country  is  one  big  nosegay, 
the  scents  wonderful,  really  that  is  the  word;  the  life  of  us 
holiday-makers  luxurious  to  the  extent  of  making  us  feel 
wicked,  at  least  in  the  old  sense  of  bewitched.” 

All  this  appears  transformed  in  the  masterly  last  chapters  of 
News  from  Nowhere:  the  record  hay  crop,  the  long,  hot  June  days, 
the  ancient,  scented  house,  no  longer  an  oasis  amid  the  horrors  of 
the  world  of  commercialism,  but  gaining  a new  dignity  and 
beauty  from  its  use  and  surroundings,  the  delight  at  being  able 
to  enjoy  all  this  without  a lurking  sense  of  guilt  (though  Morris 
had  surely  earned  the  right  to  enjoy  if  ever  a man  did),  and, 
finally,  the  sense  of  bewitchment.  At  Kelmscott  Morris  was  at  the 
end  of  his  journey  in  time,  he  entered  it  like  a ghost  from  the  past, 
aware  that  this  imagined  happiness  was  not  for  hhn,  that  he  and 
his  new-found  companions,  more  radiantly  alive  at  that  moment 
than  the  people  of  the  real  world,  were  divided  by  a gulf  across 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  I7} 

which  he  and  they  could  peer  and  call,  but  which  prevented 
further  contact.  Drop  by  drop  the  joy  and  beauty  of  the  future 
life  slip  through  liis  fingers,  his  hold  relaxes,  he  turns  away  to 
meet  a representative  of  the  past  to  which  he  must  now  return: 

“It  was  a man  who  looked  old  but  whom  I knew  from  habit, 
now  half-forgotten,  was  really  not  much  more  than  fifty  (y,  as  in 
fact  of  Morris*  own  age).  His  face  was  rugged,  and  grimed 
rather  than  dirty;  his  eyes  dull  and  bleared,  his  body  bent, 
his  calves  thin  and  spindly,  his  feet  dragging  and  limping.  His 
clothing  was  a mixture  of  dirt  and  rags  long  over-famiUar  to 
me.  As  I passed  him  he  touched  his  hat  with  some  goodwill  and 
courtesy,  and  much  servility.*’ 

It  is  a moment  of  extraordinary  poignancy,  but  it  is  not  the  end. 
The  new  world  fades,  its  time  is  not  yet,  but  Morris  understood, 
and  has  the  power  to  convince  us,  tl^at  what  he  has  imagined  is  in 
essentials  real,  that  it  is  there  for  us  to  find  and  that  the  time  is 
coming  in  which^wc  shall  find  it.  Over  three  hundred  years  earlier 
More  had  ended  b/s  account  of  a communist  society  sadly,  with 
the  realisation  that  “many  things  be  in  the  Utopian  wcalc  pub- 
lique,  whiche  in  our  cities  I may  rather  wislie  for  than  hope 
after.”  More  wrote  without  hope  because  he  wrote  alone:  Morris 
wrote  out  of  the  fullness  of  his  life,  out  of  the  experiences  of  the 
struggle  for  socialism  and  his  fellowship  with  others  in  that 
struggle,  and  his  conclusion  was  therefore  very  different: 

“Yes,  surely!  and  if  others  can  see  it  as  I have  seen  it,  then  it 
may  be  called  a vision  rather  than  a dream.” 

3.  the  Spectre 

The  Utopias  of  Bellamy  and  of  Morris  arc  the  outstanding  but  by 
no  means  the  only  ones  to  concern  themselves  with  socialism 
during  the  last  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  and  the  first  years 
of  the  twentieth.  Indeed,  it  became  increasingly  obvious  that 
socialism  was  the  only  topic  with  which  utopian  writers  could 
concern  themselves  if  tliey  were  to  discuss  real  problems  at  all, 
since  socialism  had  now  clearly  established  itself  both  as  the 
antithesis  and  the  logical  historical  successor  of  capitalism.  Where 
is  capitalist  society  going?  Is  the  establishment  of  socialism  prac- 
tically possible?*  If  so,  is  it  desirable?  If  not,  can  it  be  prevented? 
And,  finally,  what  would  life  under  socialism  be  like?  Such  were 
the  questions  under  debate. 


174 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


We  have  seen  how  Bellamy  and  Morris  answered  them  in  their 
different  ways,  and,  as  the  debate  progressed  a great  fear  entered 
the  hearts  of  the  bourgeoisie.  This  fear  had,  in  a sense,  always 
existed,  but  as  the  Paris  Commune  was  followed  by  the  growth  of 
a world  Trade  Union  movement,  by  the  advance  of  mass  Socialist 
Parties  in  many  countries,  by  the  Russian  Revolution  of  1905,  by 
increasingly  severe  crises  accompanied  by  large-scale  unemploy- 
ment, the  fear  steadily  grew.  And  at  the  same  time -the  middle 
classes  were  alarmed  at  the  growth  of  monopoly,  both  as  a menace 
in  itself  and  as  leading  to  counter-organisation  on  the  part  of  the 
workers.  As  these  workers  more  and  more  turned  to  socialism  as 
the  way  out  of  their  troubles,  the  capitahsts  became  a prey  to 
secret  doubts  as  to  the  eternity  of  their  order,  began  to  feel  that 
the  world  could  perhaps  exist  without  them  and  that  before  long 
it  would  certainly  try. 

The  very  popularity  of  Lx>okwg  Bachi^ard  and  Nem  from  Nowhere 
was  a menace  and  a challenge:  these  books  were  having  a serious 
effect  and  must  be  answered.  And  answered  they  were,  after  a 
fashion,  though  the  answers  were  ineffective  and  have  passed 
today  to  the  rubbish  heaps  of  literature.  Who,  for  example,  has 
read,  or  even  heard  of,  Mr.  Easi*s  Experiences^  or  of  My  After- 
dream? Finally,  since  the  advance  of  socialism  was  international, 
and  Bellamy’s  and  Morris’  utopias  had  been  translated  into  a 
number  of  foreign  languages  and  widely  read,  the  debate  assumes 
a more  international  character  and  in  this  Section  we  shall  have  to 
consider  not  only  English  books  but  books  from  the  U.S.A., 
Germany  and  Austria  as  well. 

Mr,  East^s  Experiences  in  Mr.  Bellamy's  Worlds  by  G>nrad 
Wilbrandt,  was  a German  book  which  appeared  in  translation  in 
New  York  in  1 891 . It  is  a heavy  and  aridly  argumentative  Teutonic 
work,  full  of  the  jargon  of  academic  political  economy.  Its 
chief  positive  conclusions  seem  to  be  that  revolution  is  the 
result  of  tariffs  and  that  if  war  destroys  its  important  foreign 
markets  the  socialist  state  must  collapse  since  it  has  no  capital  (I). 

The  fact  that  such  a reply  should  have  appeared  in  a foreign 
country  so  soon  after  the  publication  of  Looking  Backward  is 
impressive  evidence  of  its  effectiveness:  no  less  impressive  is  the 
fact  that  as  late  as  1900  it  was  still  found  to  require  an  answer,  and 
it  was  in  that  year  that  Afterdream.  A Sequel  to  the  Late  Mr. 
Bellamy's  Loo^ng  Backward  was  published  in  London.  In  it 
Bellamy’s  hero,  Julian  West,  is  made  to  declare  that  he  has 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  175 

matters  to  add  to  what  he  told  Mr.  Bellamy,  and  it  is  an  altogether 
livelier  af&ir  than  either  Wilbrandt*s  or  Bellamy’s  own  book.  The 
main  arguments  are  not  convincing  but  there  are  some  telling 
strokes  at  the  expense  of  Bellamy’s  solemn  elaboration  of  mech- 
anical detail,  as  in  the  picture  of  the  dangers  and  difficulties  of 
moving  along  streets  filled  with  the  countless  pneumatic  tubes  of 
all  sizes  necessary  to  carry  goods  from  the  national  warehouses  to 
every  house. 

Typical  is  the  t^ductio  ad  absurdum  of  his  argument  on  the 
automatic  self-regulation  of  the  hours  of  labour  in  the  various 
trades.  ‘West’  explains  that  the  difficulty  of  procuring  undertakers 
was  so  great  that  their  working  day  had  had  to  be  reduced  to 
five  minutes,  so  that  to  carry  out  a funeral  needed  4,362  assistants 
working  in  relays.  In  an  attempt  to  ‘'ountcr  this,  a Cock  Robin 
School  had  been  set  up,  where  the  boys  practised  mock  funerals 
with  the  gigantic  model  oi  a robin. 

“The  pupils  are  selected  from  tliose  lads'jvho  show  unusual 
signs  of  tender-heartedness,  and  the  idea  is  that  by  accustoming 
them  from  early  years  to  practise  the  rites  of  sepulture,  in  future 
there  will  be  a larger  number  of  volunteers  for  the  profession, 
with  the  necessary  result  of  an  increase  in  the  hours  of  labour, 
and  this  will,  of  course,  effcctagreatsavingforthe  community.” 

The  profession  of  artist,  on  the  contrary,  was  so  much  desired 
that  here  a full  eight  hour  day  was  insisted  on,  and  the  artist 
constantly  tormented  by  inspectors. 

‘Julian  West’s’  final  discomfiture  came  when  he  was  given  the 
task  of  cleamng  sewers,  and  when  he  discovered  that  Edith  Lccte 
(who  had  appeared  to  be  a ‘lady’)  worked  in  a laundry.  His  not 
very  startling  conclusion  is  that 

“it  was  not,  I determined,  reconstruction  on  new  lines  that  the 
world  needed:  it  was  the  creation  of  a higher  ideal  among  the 
toiling  masses.” 

He  does  not  say  if  he  regards  high  ideals  as  unnecessary  for  the 
upper  classes  or  whether  he  thinks  they  are  already  sufficiently 
provided. 

Neither  of  these  books  has  the  slightest  value  as  a serious 
criticism  of  socialism,  but  both  are  to  a certain  extent  valid  as 
against  the  bureaucratic  distortions  and  the  rigidly  mechanical 
equalitarianism  of  Bellamy’s  Utopia,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  most 


176  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

markedly  non-Marxist  aspects  of  his  work.  In  this  sense  they 
illustrate  the  truth  of  Morris’  warning  about  the  dangerous 
tendencies  in  Ijooking  Backward. 

Apart  from  these  direct  replies  to  Bellamy,  the  period  saw  at 
least  four  anti-socialist  Utopias.  The  earliest  of  these  is  Across  the 
Zodiac  by  Percy  Greg,  published  in  I.ondon  in  1880.  Greg,  a 
Lancashire  journalist,  is  described  by  the  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography  as 

“in  youth  a secularist,  in  middle  life  a spiritualist,  in  later  years 
a champion  of  feudalism  and  absolutism,  and  in  particular  an 
embittered  adversary  of  the  American  Union.” , 

He  has  evidently,  what  was  rare  in  England  at  that  date,  at  least  a 
superficial  knowledge  of  Marxism,  and  his  attack,  follows  a 
historical  method  which  is  interesting  as  foreshadowing  more 
recent  attempts  to  link  communism  and  fascism.  The  hero  of 
his  story  reaches  Mars  in  a space  boat  to  find  there  a world  which 
is  evidently  what  Greg  fears  our  own  may  become  in  some 
centuries’  time. 

The  creation  of  a Martial  world  state,  with  universal  suffrage 
had  opened  a long  period  of  class  war,  culminating  in  a pro- 
letarian revolution  and  universal  communism.  The  results 
(naturally)  were  disastrous: 

“The  first  and  most  visible  effect  of  Communism  was  the 
utter  disappearance  of  all  perishable  luxuries,  of  all  food, 
clothing,  furniture,  better  than  that  enjoyed  by  the  poorest.” 

Dissatisfied  groups  gradually  seceded  to  less  fertile  parts  of  the 
planet  to  set  up  a rival  state,  a long,  intermittent  war  followed, 
ending  with  the  destruction  of  communism  and  the  establishment 
of  a world  totalitarian  state.  This  state  w^as  more  efficient  than  its 
communist  rival,  but,  from  Greg’s  point  of  view,  scarcely  more 
admirable. 

It  was  based  on  private  property,  but  its  members  had  virtually 
no  private  life.  The  family  had  ceased  to  exist,  marriage  was  by 
purchase  and  women  were  strictly  confined  to  their  homes  and 
without  rights  of  any  kind.  The  new  society  was  ‘materialistic’, 
atheism  being  a dogma  and  any  doubts  expressed  about  the 
infallibility  of  science  likely  to  land  the  doubter  in  an  asylum; 
it  was  authoritarian,  with  an  absolute  ruler,  the  campetiy  arbit- 
rarily selected,  and  all  lower  officials  chosen  on  a kind  of  ‘leader 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS 


177 

principle’,  and  it  was  brutally  repressive,  one  feature  being  tlie 
systematic  torture  of  prisoners* 

At  the  time  of  being  visited,  however,  the  Martial  state  was 
being  .undermined  from  within  by  a secret  society,  religious 
rather  than  political,  rejecting  the  official  atheism  and  refusing  to 
hand  over  its  children  to  the  state.  No  solution  of  the  conflict 
was  in  sight,  but  Greg  hints  that  the  totalitarian  state  will  ulti- 
mately be  defeated.  Ajcross  the  ZodtaCy  old-fashioned  in  its  details 
and  in  its  pompoui,  inflated  style  has  yet  an  oddly  familiar  ring: 
all  the  current  cliches  about  communism,  totalitaiianism  and  the 
‘free  world’  can  be  seen  taking  shape:  totalitarianism  is  the  logical 
response  to  communism  and  both  arc  criticised  from  a feudal- 
romantic  standpoint  in  which  much  play  is  made  with  ‘chivalry’ 
and  ‘Christian  values.’ 

Similar  in  some  respects  is  a book  piiblisJied  in  America  in 
1890,  which,  fantastic  as  it  is,  had  a considerable  immediate 
success.  This  is  Caesar's  Column^  by  Ignatius  iJonnclly.  Donnelly 
was  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1H31,  moved  west,  and  settled  early  in 
Minnesota  where  he  was  Lieutenant  Govcinor  during  tlie  Civil 
War  and  later  a Crrangcite  and  a leadirig  figure  in  the  Populist 
Party.  lie  was  one  of  tlic  cliaiacteiistic  nii<  Idle -class  radicals  of  the 
frontier — muddled,  eccentric  (a  believer  in  both  the  Baconian 
theory  and  the  historical  cjvisicnce  of  Atlantis),  but  shrewd,  and 
a courageous  and  outspoken  opponent  of  graft  and  monopoly. 

Of  the  corruption  ot  American  politics  he  had  ample  ex- 
perience, being  a mf*mber,  around  1889,  of  that  Minnesota  State 
Senate  of  which  his  biographer  wrote: 

“One  Senator  charged,  and  offered  to  prove,  that  25,000 
dollars  had  been  paid  to  a.:othcr  Senator  for  his  vote;  and  that 
dignified  body  did  not  even  think  it  wortli  while  to  investigate 
the  charge.  In  the  House,  thirty  members  were  said  to  have 
banded  themselves  together,  and  one  man  sold  their  votes,  on 
all  important  questions,  as  Mr.  Donnelly  said,  ‘like  a bunch  of 
asparagras’.  An  universal  outcry  went  up  from  the  people  tha^- 
it  was  the  worst  legislature  that  had  ever  been  known  in  the 
world.” 

It  was  to  these  experiences,  and  others  like  them,  that  Caesar* s 
Column  owes  [its  existence.  In  it  Gabriel  Welstein,  an  extremely 
innocent  young  man  of  Swiss  origin,  comes  to  New  York  from 
East  Africa  . He  finds  that  monopoly  capitalism 


178  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

has  developed  into  a system  of  unparalleled  corruption.  A series 
of  dramatic  chapters  describe  the  vices  and  selfishness  of  the  rich, 
the  brutalisation  and  growing  revolt  of  the  masses,  and  the  final 
wild  outbreak,  part  of  a world-wide  insurrection,  in  which  the 
workers  destroy  capitalism  and  its  civilisation  under  the  leader- 
ship of  a secret,  and  highly  sinister,  ‘Brotherhood  of  Destruc- 
tion’. This  revolt  has  neither  plan  nor  purpose,  but  leads  only  to 
an  orgy  of  massacre  and  riot,  culminating  in  the  episode  from 
which  the  book  takes  its  title. 

So  many  corpses  litter  the  streets  of  New  York  that  the 
leader  of  the  revolt,  Caesar  Lomellini,  decides  to  dispose  of  them 
in  a vast  column,  built  by  laying  the  bodies  out  in  successive 
layers  and  covering  each  layer  with  concrete.  For  Caesar’s  Column 
Wclstcin  composes  an  inscription  that  is  the  epitaph  of  a civilis- 
ation: 

“this  great  MONUMFJsJT  is  erected  by  CAESAR 

LOMELLINI,  COMMANDING  GENERAL  OF  lllE  BROTHER- 
HOOD OF  DESTRUCTION,  IN  COMMEMORAITON  OF  THE 
DEATH  AND  BURIAL  OF  MODERN  CIVILISATION. 

“It  is  composed  of  the  bodies  of  a quarter  of  a million  of 
human  beings,  who  were  once  the  rulers,  or  the  instruments  of 
the  rulers,  of  this  mighty,  but,  alas!  this  ruined  city. 

“They  were  dominated  by  leaders  who  were  altogether  evil. 

“They  corrupted  the  courts,  the  juries,  the  newspapers,  the 
legislatures,  the  congresses,  the  ballot-boxes  and  the  hearts  and 
souls  of  the  people. 

“They  formed  gigantic  combinations  to  plunder  the  poor;  to 
make  the  miserable  more  miserable;  to  take  from  those  who  had 
least  and  give  it  to  those  who  had  most. 

“They  used  the  machinery  of  free  government  to  effect  opp- 
ression; they  made  liberty  a mockery,  and  its  traditions  a jest; 
they  drove  justice  from  the  land  and  installed  cruelty,  ignor- 
ance, despair  and  vice  in  its  place. 

“Their  hearts  were  harder  than  the  nether  mill-stone;  they 
degraded  humanity  and  outraged  God. 

“At  length  indignation  stirred  in  the  vasty  courts  of  heaven; 
and  overburdened  human  nature  rose  in  universal  revolt  on 
earth. 

“By  the  very  instruments  which  their  own  wickedness  had 
created  they  perished,  and  here  they  lie,  sepulchred  in  stone. . . . 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  I79 

“Should  civilisation  ever  revive  on  earth,  let  the  human 
race  come  hither  and  look  upon  this  towering  shaft,  and  learn 
to  restrain  selfishness  and  Jive  righteously.  From  this  ghastly 
pile  let  it  derive  the  great  lesson,  that  no  earthly  government* 
can  endure  which  is  not  built  on  mercy,  justice,  truth  and  love.” 

Horrified  by  all  that  he  had  seen,  by  the  dead  civilisation  no  less 
than  by  the  judgment  that  had  overwhelmed  it,  Wclstein  Hies 
back  to  his  remote^  African  home,  one  of  few  places  un  visited 
by  the  catastrophe,  there  to  set  about  the  construction  of  a repub- 
lic on  lines  by  which,  he  hopes,  the  danger  of  class  struggle  may 
be  avoided.  It  is  the  old  dream  of  the  middle-class  radical,  free 
enterprise  without  exploitation,  very  much,  indeed,  what 
Donnelly  and  his  fellow  Populists  winted  in  America,  There  is 
no  mistaking  the  earnestness  of  his  intentions;  but  between 
hatred  of  monopoly  capitalism  and  fear  and  misunderstanding  of 
the  working  class,  his  helplessness  is  equally  c;bvious. 

Another  Utopia  which  also  promised  free 'enterprise  witl^out 
exploitation  in  an  East  African  setting  was  Vreeland.  A Social 
ybiticipationy  published  in  1890  b)  the  Austrian  economist 
Theodor  Hertzka.  This  may  seem  a less  remarkable  coincidence 
when  we  remember  that  the  recent  explorations  of  li.ast  Africa 
had  revealed  large  tracts  with  a climate  suitable  for  Imropean 
settlement,  and  that  the  area  was  just  on  the  point  of  being 
opened  up.  Both  books,  in  fact,  were  written  in  the  very  years  in 
which  the  British  Last  Afiica  Co.  was  preparing  the  way  for  the 
formal  annexation  of  the  whole  region,  llertzka’s  Utopia  is  unique 
at  least  in  showing  us,  instead  of  a society  as  a going  concern,  the 
foundation  of  such  a society,  .*nd  he  shared  with  Cabet  the  experi- 
ence of  witnessing  attempts  to  transform  his  fiction  into  reality. 
The  results,  however,  were  even  less  substantial  than  in  the  case 
of  the  Icarians.i 

The  story  of  the  establishment  of  Freeland  is  told  with  the  most 
painstaking  detail,  down  to  the  furnisiiing  of  each  member  of  the 
advance  party  “with  six  compK  te  sets  of  underclothing  of  light 
elastic  woollen  material — the  so-called  Jager  clothing”.  After 
such  a start  it  can  be  imagined  how  brilliantly  all  obstacles  to  the 
setting  up  of  the  Utopian  state  are  overcome. 

The  basis  oT  this  state  is  the  common  ownership  of  the  land 
combined  with  free  enterprise  in  production.  Any  individual  or 


1 Sec  p.  134, 


l8o  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

group  is  provided  with  capital,  free  of  interest,  for  approved 
enterprises,  the  capital  to  be  repaid  by  instalments.  Most  pro- 
duction is  in  fact  carried  on  by  co-operative  associations,  the 
products  being  shared  according  to  the  work  done.  Women, 
children  and  those  unable  to  work  are  provided  for.  Freeland  is 
the  utopia  of  enlightened  self-interest: 

“The  organisation  was  in  truth  mainly  a mode  of  removing  all 
those  hindrances  that  stand  in  the  way  of  wise  self-interest. 
So  much  the  more  was  it  necessary  to  give  right  direction  to 
the  sovereign  will,  and  offer  to  self-interest  every  assistance  to- 
wards obtaining  a correct  and  speedy  grasp  of  its  real  advan- 
tage.” 

In  such  a society  it  is  gratifying  rather  than  surprising  to  learn  that 
neither  communism  nor  nihilism,  those  two  bogeys  of  the  day, 
could  find  any  foothold. 

Most  of  what  has  been  said  about  the  replies  to  Looking 
Backward  applies  equally  to  F.ugenc  Richter’s  Pictures  of  the 
Socialistic  Viiture  (189:5).  Rirhter  draws  a picture  of  socialism 
manifestly  absurd  and  contradicted  by  everything  that  has 
happened  since  1917.  His  Socialist  Government  confiscates 
personal  property  and  small  savings,  and  abolishes  money. 
Children  arc  taken  from  their  parents,  old  people  forced  into 
homes.  Everything,  down  to  the  smallest  one-man  enterprise,  is 
nationalised  overnight.  After  all  this  it  is  not  difficult  to  proceed 
to  the  assumption,  which  can  now  be  demonstrated  in  practice  to 
be  incorrect,  that  socialism  will  lead  to  such  a fall  in  production 
that  the  workers  will  receive  less  than  they  received  under 
capitalism.  Once  more  we  have  the  familiar  picture  of  the  police 
state,  with  bureaucratic  follies  and  extortions  multiplied  till  the 
overdriven  workers  revolt.  And  once  more  it  may  be  observed 
that  such  justification  as  it  may  have  is  given  to  Richter’s  picture 
by  the  lapses  into  opportunism,  the  undialectical  thinking,  which 
were  already  appearing  in  German  Social  Democracy  as  well  as 
in  that  of  other  countries. 

A more  interesting  work  on  similar  lines  is  Ernest  Bramah’s 
What  might  Have  Been,  The  Story  of  a Social  War  (1907),  reprinted 
in  1909  under  its  more  familiar  title.  The  Secret  of  the  League.  At  the 
General  Election  of  1906  a block  of  some  forty  Labour  and  Trade 
Union  Members  had  been  returned  to  Parliament,  to  the  alarm  of 
those  to  whom  that  body  had  always  been  regarded  as  the 


THE  DREAM  OF  WILLIAM  MORRIS  l8l 

exclusive  'preserve  of  the  upper  and  middle  classes.  Bramah’s 
book  is  an  expression  of  that  alarm,  and  when  it  opens,  about 
1918,  Britain  is  in  the  middle  of  another  election  in  the  course^ 
of  whi'ch  a ‘moderate’  Labour  Government  is  replaced  by  a 
socialist  one.  To  Bramali  the  process  was  beautifully  simple: 

“The  Labour  party  had  come  into  power  by  pt)inting  out  to 
voters  of  the  working  class  that  its  members  were  iheir 
brothers;  and  promising  them  a good  deal  of  properly  belong- 
ing to  other  people  and  a gc^od  many  privileges  which  they 
vehemently  denounced  in  every  other  class.  When  m power 
they  had  thrown  open  the  doors  ot  election  to  one  and  all.  The 
Socialist  party  had  come  into  power  by  pointing  out  to  voters 
of  the  working  class  that  its  members  were  even  more  their 
brothers,  and  promising  them  a still  larger  share  ot  otlicr 
people’s  property  (some,  indeed,  belonging  to  the  more  pros- 
perous of  the  Labour  members  then  in  office)  and  still  greater 
privileges.” 

The  new  Socialist  Government,  in  spile  ( f its  name,  made  no 
attempt  at  any  fundamental  cliangc,  l)ut  contended  itself  with 
imposing  ever  increasing  taxatioti  to  finance  a ‘Welfare  State’ 
on  the  basis  of  a continued  capitalist  productive  sjstcm.  The 
result  was  a maximum  irritation  of  the  upper,  and  especially  of  the 
middle  classes,  with  the  minimum  of  benefit  to  the  workers: 

“It  was  almost  the  Millennium.  The  only  drawback  was  that, 
with  all  this  affluence  around,  the  wcjrking  man  found  himself 
very  much  in  the  condition  of  a financial  Ancient  MLarincr. 
There  was  a great  deal  of  money  being  spent  on  him,  and  for 
him,  but  he  never  had  any  in  his  pocket.  And  the  working  man’s 
wife  was  even  worse  ofl.” 

Bramah,  obviously,  had  no  conception  that  socialism  could  mean 
anything  else  than  mindless  plundering,  and  his  book  is  both 
stupid  and  ignorant,  filled  with  an  undisguised  hatred  of,  and 
contempt  for  the  working  class.  Wfflat  gives  it  a certain  interest  is, 
first,  its  direct  reflection  of  the  rise  of  the  Labcjur  Party,  and, 
second,  its  quite  unintended  demonstration  of  the  futility  of 
trying  to  build  a welfare  state  while  still  leaving  the  capitalist  class 
in  undisturbed  possession  of  the  power  it  draws  from  its  owner- 
ship of  the  means  of  production. 

His  story  proceeds  to  describe  the  increasing  difficulties  of  the 
Government  and  its  defeat  by  the  ‘Unity  League’,  a semi-secret 


i82  the  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

organisation  of  ail  the  population  outside  the  manual  workers. 
The  method  of  the  League  was  to  proclaim  suddenly,  on  behalf 
of  all  its  members,  a boycott  on  the  use  of  coal:  at  the  same  time 
it  had  secured,  by  a conspiracy  with  the  foreign  goverhments 
concerned,  the  placing  of  an  embargo  on  the  import  of  British 
coal  by  its  normal  chief  buyers — all  of  course  with  the  most 
patriotic  motives  and  sentiments.  In  the  end,  after  a coup 
the  League  seized  power  and  proceeded  to  establish  a Parliament- 
ary dictatorship  by  the  simple  means  of  disfrailchising  virtually  the 
whole  of  the  working  class,  a step  which  Bramah  approves  with 
the  ireton-like  argument  that  in  running  a business  the  share-^ 
holders  vote  according  to  the  amount  of  their  capital. 

The  same  year,  1907,  saw  also  the  publication  of  a final  contri- 
bution to  the  great  debate,  this  time  on  the  socialist  side.  Jack 
London’s  The  Iron  I lee/  has  long  been  accepted  as  a classic  in  the 
working  class  movement,  and  I do  not  propose  to  discuss  it  here 
in  any  detail.  It  is  valuable  because  London,  despite  many 
theoretical  weaknesses,  writes  with  power  and  imagination  about 
the  immediate  future  from  the  standpoint  of  Marxism.  It  was  this 
which  gave  him  his  insight  into  the  nature  of  the  enemy,  his 
understanding  of  the  ferocity  and  unscrupulousness  of  the 
ruling  class  and  the  lengths  to  which  they  will  go  rather  than 
give  up  their  power.  This  insight  helped  him  to  foresee  the  rise 
of  fascism,  and,  in  particular,  as  we  can  now  realise  better  than 
ever  before,  the  new  kind  of  fascism  that  is  threatening  to  arise 
out  of  American  imperialism.  Above  all,  he  saw  that  fascism  is  not 
a mysterious  disease,  but  something  arising  naturally  in  certain 
conditions  from  declining  capitalism. 

In  one  sense  The  Iron  Heel  was  already  becoming  ‘old-fashioned’ 
even  when  it  appeared,  for  it  still  takes  for  granted  that  socialism 
is  a revolutionary  creed,  at  a time  when  all  over  Europe  and 
America  reactionary  leaders  were  trying  to  disguise  this  awkward 
fact.  By  1907  the  new  epoch  of  imperialism  was  already  well 
advanced,  and  with  it  went  the  growth  of  opportunism  in  the 
workers’  movement.  So,  also,  the  nature  of  utopian  speculation 
changed  correspondingly,  and,  if  the  discussion  continued  to 
revolve  around  socialism,  it  was  socialism  with  a difference. 
Already,  in  terms  of  utopian  development,  we  have  slipped  over 
into  the  period  in  which  H.  G.  Wells  is  the  dominating  figure, 
and  it  is  to  Wells  and  what  he  stood  for,  and  to  the  opposition 
which  his  ideas  aroused,  that  we  must  now  turn. 


CITAPTER  VTI 


YESTERDAY  AND  TOMORROW 


I can  say  this  of  Naseby,  That  when  I saw  the  Enemy  diaw’  up  ind  march  in  f>allant 

order  towards  us,  and  we  a company  of  poor  ipnorant  men,  to  seek  how  to  order  our 

battle:  the  General  having  commanded  me  to  oidei  all  the  Horse,  I could  not 

(riding  alone  about  my  business),  but  smile  <iul  to  Ciod  in  praises,  in  assurance  of 

victory,  because  God  would,  by  things  that  arc  not,  bring  to  naught  things  that  are. 

Of  which  1 had  great  assurance,  and  God  did  it  , r 

• ^ ( HOMWi  1 l:  Let/erj> 


“I o-moriow,”  said  C»umbril  at  List  meditatively 

“To-moirow,”  Mis.  Vneash  inieiiuptcd  him,  “will  be  is  awful  as  to-day.” 

AiDois  IhjXLrY  Antic  Hay, 


1.  Cellophane  Utopia 

The  writers  we  have  had  to  consider  so  lar  have  contented 
themselves  with  a single  Utopia,  or  if  not,  have  at  least,  like 
Swift,  confined  their  ITtopias  witliin  a single  volume:  this  cannot, 
alas,  be  said  of  II.  G.  Wells.  Of  the  hundred  or  so  books  with 
which  he  is  credited  a considerable  proportion  arc  utopias,  or  have 
at  least  a partly  utopian  character;  so  many  ate  they,  indeed,  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  discuss  them  all.  The  main  works  which 
I should  like  to  put  in  here  as  evidence  arc  W'^ben  the  Sleeper  Wakes 
(1899,  republished  1921  as  The  Sleeper  An>akcs\  The  Ttrsi  Men  in 
the  Moon  (1901),  A Moaern  Utopia  (1905),  l.  he  New  Machiavelli 
(1911),  The  Vk^orld  Set  Tree  (1914).  Men  Idke  God^  (1922),  Thinf^s 
to  Come , film  treatment  »f  The  Shape  of ' Things  to  Come^ 
and  Mind  at  the  End  of  Its  T.ther.  These  books  may  be 
taken  as  a fair  sample  of  the  work  of  forty  years. 

The  very  fact  Aat  he  found  it  necesrary  to  write  so  many 
utopias  suggests  that  Wells  was  never  able  to  convince  himrcif 
with  any  of  them,  and  this  was  clearly  the  case.  He  spent  his  life  in 
a permanent  state  of  having  stamd  thoughts  about  everything,  of 
mistaking  prejudices  for  principles,  and,  lacking  any  scientific 
understanding  of  society,  he  was  for  ever  running  up  blind 
alleys,  isolating,  and  so  distorting,  one  facet  or  another,  giving 
a ‘socialist*,  ‘progressive*,  gloss  to  some  scrap  of  bourgeois 
pseudo-sciencG — ^neo-malthusianism,  Keynesian  full  employment 
economics,  Jungian-type  psychology  and  the  like.  He  made  a 
whole  series  of  guesses  about  the  future,  each  guess  ostensibly 


184  the  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

scientific,  and  each,  by  its  difference  from  all  the  others,  exposing 
its  own  pretensions  to  science. 

To  explore  this  jungle  of  empiricism  would  need,  not  a single 
chapter,  but  a whole  book,  and  I do  not  intend  to  attempt  any 
such  exploration.  Instead  I shall  adopt  a method  rather  different 
from  that  followed  hitherto,  and  attempt  to  discuss  this  series  of 
books  as  a whole,  to  ignore  the  differences  and  concentrate  on 
the  main  common  features  running  through  them,  on  what  seems 
to  be  permanent  and  really  characteristic  in  Walls’  thought.  I shall 
therefore  not  attempt  to  deal  with  the  separate  utopias  in  their 
details  or  their  fictional  framework,  though  it  is  important  to[ 
remember  that  Wells,  more  than  almost  any  of  the  writers 
discussed  in  this  book,  was  a professional  novelist  with  a high 
level  of  technical  competence. 

Wells  came  to  intellectual  maturity,  and  his  writings  look  as 
definite  a shape  as  they  were  capable  of,  in  the  period  of  the  growth 
of  imperialism,  and,  finally,  in  that  short  first  stage  of  imperialism 
before  1914  opened  the  general  crisis  of  capitalism.  That  is  to 
say,  he  was  born  in  the  Victorian  world  of  muddle,  of  irrational 
survivals,  of  petty  competition  and  small-shopkeeper  economy, 
and  grew  into  a world  in  which  these  things  became  mf)re  and 
more  obviously  survivals  and  anomalies.  He  regarded  himself, 
intermittently,  as  a socialist,  but  his  socialism  derived  from  Saint- 
Simon,  Comte  and  Bellamy  rather  dian  from  Marx  and  Morris.  He 
could  see  the  faults  of  the  old  capitalism,  and  naively  supposed 
that  he  could  persuade  it  to  transform  itself,  shedding  its  absurdi- 
ties and  becoming  clear,  sweet  and  reasonable,  \Vhat  was  at 
fault  was  not  so  much  capitalism  as  the  imperfections  that  had 
accompanied  its  early  stages  and  the  feudal  survivals  from  wliich  it 
had  not  entirely  freed  itself. 

The  hero  of  T/je  "Neu^  MachiaveUi  declared,  the  period  being 
around  1902: 

“‘Muddle,’  said  1,  ‘is  the  enemy.’  That  remains  my  belief  to 
this  day.  Clearness  and  order,  light  and  foresight,  these  things 
I know  for  Good.  It  was  muddle  had  just  given  us  the  still 
freshly  painful  disasters  and  humiliations  of  the  war,  muddle 
that  gives  us  the  visibly  sprawling  disorder  oCour  cities  and 
industrial  country-side,  muddle  that  gives  us  the  waste  of  life, 
the  limitations,  wretchedness  and  unemployment  of  the  poor. 
Muddlel  I remember  myself  quoting  Kipling — 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  185 

along  o’  dirtiness,  all  along  o*  mess. 

All  along  o’  doin’  things  rather-more-or-less,’ 

**  ‘We  build  the  state’,  we  said  over  and  over  again.  ‘That  is, 
what  we  are  for — servants  of  the  new  reorganisation!’” 

And,  a little  later: 

had  one  constant  desire  ruling  my  thoughts.  I mcata  to 
leave  England  and  the  empire  better  ordered  than  I found  it,  to 
organise  and  disdpUne,  to  build  up  a constructive  and  controll- 
ing State  out  of  my  world’s  confusions.” 

)So  socialism  was  basically  a matter  of  helping  capitalism  to  emerge 
from  its  infantile  mess,  and  at  the  end  of  the  road  sh()nc  the 
Wellsian  Utopia,  a sterilised,  hygienic,  cellophane  world  where 
everything  appeared  to  have  been  just  polished  by  all  the  most 
advertised  brands. 

In  this  he  was  not  alone.  Ijke  al!  the  Fabians,  he  saw  socialism 
not  as  a new  category  but  as  a form  of  sociahhygicne*  the  world 
needed  tidying.  One  of  the  favourite  Eabian  illustrations  of  the 
waste  and  absurdity  of  capitalism  was  the  tact  that  six  milkmen 
might  often  be  observed  in  one  street  when  the  job  could  be  done 
just  as  efficiently  by  one.  No  doubt  this  is  true,  and  no  doubt 
socialism  would  end  such  waste,  but  what  tlie  Fabians  failed  to  sec 
was  that  monopoly  could  c<jually  easily  end  it  without  either 
housewife  or  milkman  being  a penny  the  better,  and,  very 
possibly,  being  considerably  the  wc^rse,  for  the  change.  Chesterton 
was  not  exaggerating  too  wildl / when  he  wrote  of 

“Mr.  Sidney  Webb,  also,  who  said  thi<t  the  future  would  sec  a 
continuously  increasing  oider  and  neatness  in  the  life  c^f  the 
]5eople,  and  his  poor  friend  Fipps,  wEio  went  mad  and  ran  about 
the  country  with  an  axe,  hacking  branches  off  the  trees  when- 
ever there  were  not  the  same  number  on  both  sides.” 

To  Wells,  to  all  the  Fabians,  thc-e  was  something  terribly 
impressive  about  imperialism,  about  its  power,  its  smoothness,  its 
order,  its  science,  its  ideal  of  a world  subdued  and  organised,  its 
headlong  technical  advance.  If  only  the  Kings  of  this  new  world 

would  call  in  the  Philosophers Failing  that,  the  Philosophers 

must  somehow  attach  themselves  to  the  Kings,  must  permeate 
and  persuade*  must  get  their  hands  on  the  controls  when  the 
Kings  were  looking  another  way — or — at  the  least — write 
innumerable  essays  and  tracts  showing  how  it  might  be  done.  It 


l86  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

was  as  a pamphleteer  rather  than  as  a permeator  that  Wells 
excelled. 

If  he  broke  with  the  Fabian  Society  it  was  not  because  he 
disagreed  with  their  fundamental  attitude.  He  was  a Fabian  who 
wanted  to  furnish  Fabianism  with  a fervour,  an  exciting  quality, 
an  appearance  of  imaginative  depth  which  it  was  not  in  its  nature 
to  possess.  What  he  succeeded  in  doing  was  to  vulgarise  it.  The 
Fabian  belief  in  socialism  as  a form  of  hygiene  sits  ill  ,with  senti- 
ment and  emotional  uplift,  and  Wells  is  always  at  a loss  when  he 
tries  to  explain  what  his  Utopias  are  for.  Like  imperialism  they 
have  no  purpose  greater  than  themselves,  and  it  is  characteristic' 
that  just  as  imperialism  is  bent  on  subduing  the  whole  world,  the 
super-imperialist  Utopias  of  Wells  can  offer  nothing  better  than 
the  conquest  of  the  universe.  The  Samurai  of  A.  Modern  Utopia 
recalls  how,  in  a moment  of  supreme  exaltation: 

*T  remember  that  one  night  I sat  up  and  told  the  rascal  stars 
very  earnestly  how  they  should  not  escape  me  in  the  end.’^ 

There  is  hardly  a single  one  of  the  Wellsian  Utopias  in  which  the 
theme  of  inter-planetary  or  inter-stellar  navigation  does  not 
appear  in  some  form  or  another. 

While,  on  the  face  of  things,  imperialism  certainly  was  impres- 
sive, at  least  till  1914,  the  working-class  movement  was  anything 
but  impressive  to  men  like  the  Fabians.  It  was  raw,  confused, 
sectarian,  emotional  and,  in  short,  a company  of  poor  ignorant 
men.  None  of  them  had  the  Cromwellian  eye  to  see  that  with 
this  poor  company  lay  the  future  and  the  bringing  to  naught  of 
the  things  that  are,  which  is  the  reason  why,  though  many  of  them 
were  far  cleverer  people  than  Cromwell,  they  won  no  victories. 
Wells  had  his  full  share  in  this  lack  of  faith.  In  Tbe  Nen^  Machtavelli 
he  expresses  it  in  his  picture  of  Chris  Robinson  (Keir  Hardie?), 
the  working-class  socialist  leader: 

‘T  looked  at  Chris  Robinson,  bright-eyed  and  his  hair  a little 
ruffled  and  his  whole  being  rhetorical,  and  measured  him 
against  the  huge  machine  of  government  muddled  and  mys- 
terious. Ohl  but  I was  perplexedl” 

Clearly  socialism  could  not  come  from  the  rough,  ignorant, 
narrow  workers,  led  by  such  men  as  Robinson.  They  were  in- 
capable of  appreciating  the  logical  beauty  of  the  Wellsian  Utopia, 
which  had  no  place  for  them  or  for  anything  they  might  become. 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  187 

Frederick  Barnet  in  The  World  Set  Tree  meets  unemployed 
workers  and  finds  them  unresponsive: 

‘T  tried  to  talk  to  these  discontented  men,  but  it  was  hard 
for  them  to  see  things  as  I saw  them.  When  I talked  of  patience 
and  the  larger  scheme,  they  answered,  ‘But  we  shall  all  be  dead’ 
— and  T could  not  make  them  see,  what  is  so  simple  to  my  own 
mind,  that  that  did  not  affect  the  question.  Men  who  think  in 
lifetimes  are  of  po  use  to  statesmanship.” 

In  The  World  Set  Free  the  Utopian  w(^fld  state  is  finally  established, 
after  a devastating  war,  by  an  international  conference  of  Kings 
and  Presidents,  with  a few  scientists  and  writer^  thrown  in  for 
good  measure. 

This  certainty  that  however  Utopia  may  be  realised  it  will  not 
be  through  ihc  working  class,  colours  Wells’  whole  i>ullook  from 
his  first  books  to  his  last.  Not  only  are  the  workers  rejected  as  a 
positive  historical  force,  but  there  is  an  active,  if  often  hslf- 
suppressed,  fear  and  hatred  which  assumes  curious  forms.  When 
workers  appear  in  his  books  thej  are  uncouth,  stunted  and  often 
deformed,  as  in  the  extreme  case  of  the  Selcnites  in  The  First 
Men  in  the  Moon,  They  live  underground,  away  from  the  sun  and 
air,  as  in  The  Time  Machine  or  W'^hen  the  Sleeper  Wakes,  Often  the 
same  feeling  is  expressed  symbolically  as  in  the  famous  metaphor  in 
Ydpps  of  men  crawling  along  a drainpipe  till  they  die.  In  one  of 
the  later  Utopias,  Men  Tike  Gods,  a random  sample  of  English 
people  are  projected  into  a Utopian  planet  by  some  scientific 
hocus-pocus,  and  in  this  sample  the  working  class  is  ‘represented’ 
by  two  utterly  demoralised  ^ hauffeurs  who  are  even  more  out  of 
place  there  than  the  selection  of  ruling  class  types  who  accompany 
them.  Wells  might  argue  that  their  behaviour  js  quite  in  keeping 
with  probability — ^what  he  has  to  explain  is  why  he  selected  just 
these  to  stand  for  the  working  class. 

Along  with  tins  fear  and  hatred  went  a dislike  of  Marx  and 
Marxism.  Wells,  who  had  m ver  troubled  to  understand  Marxism, 
seldom  missed  an  opportunity  to  sneer  at  it.  To  one  who  saw 
socialism  largely  as  a matter  of  one  milkman  instead  of  six, 
Marx’s  conception  of  history,  his  analysis  of  the  class  structure  of 
society,  his  belief  that  socialism  meant  the  victory  of  the  working 
class,  could  not  be  acceptable.  All  his  life  Wells  spent  in  a vain 
effort  to  concoct  some  rival  theory  which  would  hold  water. 
Since,  as  we  have  said,  his  socialism  was  not  a new  category  but 


i88 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


merely  a more  effective  form,  it  was  possible  to  imagine  it  com- 
bined or  diluted  with  all  sorts  of  non-socialist  forms.  A Modern 
Utopia^  which  is  his  most  classical  utopian  essay,  and  seems  to 
Embody  most  nearly  what  he  regarded  as  practical  for  th6  fairly 
near  future,  describes  a mixed  economy  based  largely  on  the 
ideas  of  llertzka’s  Vreeland^  an  economy  in  which  private  enter- 
prise still  operates  in  a framework  of  the  public  ownership  of  land 
transport  and  essential  services.  With  this  went  machinery  for 
ensuring  full  employment  by  starting  schemes**of  public  works  to 
absorb  surplus  labour. 

His  rejection  of  Marx  forced  him  more  and  more  to  turn  away  ^ 
from  reality.  In  place  of  the  clear  concept  of  class,  based  on  pro- 
duction relationships,  Wells  invented,  with  some  help  from  Jung, 
a classification  based  on  psychological  types.  In  A Modern  Utopia 
the  people  are  divided  into  four  “classes  of  mind’’,  the  Poetic,  the 
Kinetic,  the  Dull  and  the  Base.  Much  later  in  The  W^orky  W^ealth 
and  Happiness  oj  Mankind  a somewhat  different  division  is 
made,  into  “persona” — the  Peasant,  the  Autocrat  and  the  Priest. 
Since  these  classifications  arc  completely  unrelated  to  actual  life, 
it  is  perfectly  easy  to  invent  two,  or,  indeed,  any  number  of  them, 
all  equally  plausible  and  aU  equally  meaningless. 

Further,  these  classifications  are  static,  tlicy  claim  to  describe 
something  found  equally  in  every  kind  of  society  and  so  leave  no 
roomfor  the  conception  of  change  arising  from  the  self-movement 
and  contradictions  of  actual  society.  Yet  Wells  knew  that  the  world 
docs  change,  more,  he  really  believed  in  the  necessity  and  possi- 
bility of  Utopia.  And  since  Utopia  could  not  be,  as  it  was  for 
Morris,  the  outcome  of  the  workers’  struggle,  he  was  driven  to 
endless  shifts  to  explain  convincingly  How  the  Change  Came,  This 
he  did  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  In  The  World  Set  Free  it  was  due  to 
Princes  whose  eyes  had  been  opened.  In  Things  to  Come  to  an  open 
conspiracy,  ‘Wings  across  the  World’,  of  airmen  and  technicians. 
In  A Modem  Utopia  to  another  open  conspiracy  of  a self-selected 
aristocracy,  the  Samurai,  ‘priests’  in  the  Wellsian  sense,  deter- 
mined to  serve  the  world  whether  it  would  or  no.  In  Men  Uke 
Gods  the  process  is  envisaged  more  vaguely  as  a general  and 
gradual  enlightenment: 

“The  impression  given  Mr.  Barnstaple  was  not  of  one  of 

those  violent  changes  which  our  world  has  learned  to  call 

revolutions,  but  of  an  increase  of  light,  a dawn  of  new  ideas. 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  189 

in  which  the  things  of  the  old  order  went  on  for  a time  with 
diminishing  vigour  until  people  began  as  a matter  of  common 
sense  to  do  the  new  things  in  the  place  of  the  old/* 

There  is,  in  fact,  a different  road  to  every  Wellsian  Utopia, 
but  all  have  this  in  common,  that  Utopia  is  imposed  on  the  brutal 
and  reluctant  masses  by  an  enlightened  minority.  Wells  never 
decided  how  this  minority  was  to  be  found  or  of  whom  it  should 
consist.  Sometimes  it  was  a lay-priesthood,  the  Samurai,  drawn 
from  the  more  educated  classes  and  bound  by  a Vide*  in  the  medi- 
aeval sense  f)f  that  word.  At  other  times  he  looked  for  it  among  the 
* men  of  science,  at  others  among  the  engineers,  technicians  and 
administrators  that  were  bciiig  created  in  such  numbers  to  ser\e 
monopoly  capital.  And,  in  liis  later  years,  he  seemed  more  and 
more  to  look  for  saviours  from  among  the  most  eflident  and 
‘enlightened*  capitalists,  the  Fords  and  Ri»ckefcllers,  the  Morrises 
and  the  M(mds.  lie  shared  to  the  full  the  illusions  common 
during  tlic  great  American  b«>()m  of  the  late  'twenties  and  learnt 
little  or  nothing  from  the  slump. 

His  distrust  of  the  workers  is  linked  closely  with  his  dislike  of 
democracy:  however  much  his  Utopias  differ  they  are  all  anti- 
democratic. Having  established  their  Utopia,  the  minority  of  the 
elect  continue  to  run  ii  autocratically  if  benevolently.  At  no  point 
is  there  any  suggestion  that  the  gap  Ix-twccn  minority  and  mass 
could  ever  be  closed,  and  this  is  natural,  since  the  gap  reflects  i.ot 
class  differences  which  must  tnd  in  a classless  society,  but  arbitrary 
and  absolute  differences  of  psychological  type,  inborn  and  Cv-cr- 
lasting. 

Wells  accepted  Plato’s  con  ept  of  a specialised  society,  in  which 
everyone  docs  perfectly  the  one  job  ior  which  he  is  fitted  by 
nature  and  training,  a society  therefore  of  degree.  In  Tie  Tirst 
Men  in  the  Moon  this  is  carried  to  an  extent  which  Wells  perhaps 
did  not  consciously  approve: 

“In  the  moon  every  citi;;en  knows  his  place.  He  is  born  lo 
that  place,  and  the  elaborate  discipline  of  training  and  education 
and  surgery  he  undergoes  fits  him  at  last  so  completely  to  it 
that  he  has  neither  ideas  nor  organs  for  any  purpose  beyond  it. 
‘Why  should  he?’  Phi-oo  would  ask.  If,  for  example,  a Selenite 
is  destined^  to  be  a mathematician,  his  teachers  and  trainers 
set  out  at  once  to  that  end.  They  check  any  incipient  dispos- 
ition to  other  pursuits,  they  encourage  his  mathematical 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


190 

bias  with  a perfect  psychological  skill.  His  brain  grows,  or  at 
least  the  mathematical  faculties  of  his  brain  grow,  and  the  rest 
of  him  only  so  much  as  is  necessary  to  sustain  this  essential 
part  of  him.” 

Whether  or  not  we  are  invited  to  admire  the  Selcnites,  they 
merely  carry  to  its  logical  extreme  what  is  implicit  in  all  Wells* 
thought,  and  it  is  a logic  which  leads  us  to  the  kind  of  world  shown 
in  Huxley’s  Brave  Ne)v  World  or  Joseph  O’Neiirs  iMtid  Under 
England. 

In  this  specialist  society,  government  is  also  a job  for  the 
specialist.  Wells,  like  Plato,  thought  that  the  cobbler  should  stick 
to  his  last  and  surrender  himself  to  those  who  know  best  what  is 
good  for  him,  to  the  Samurai  and  the  Open  Conspirators. 
Attempts  have  been  made  to  suggest  a parallel  between  the 
Samurai  and  the  Communist  Party:  such  attempts  ignore  the 
essential  difference  that  the  Samurai  separate  themselves  from  the 
masses  on  which  they  impose  their  wiU,  while  the  Communists 
remain  a part  of  the  class  vhich  they  lead.  This  truth  was  ex- 
pressed vividly  by  Stalin  when  he  compared  a Communist 
Party  with  the  mythical  Greek  giant  Antaeus,  whose  strength 
flowed  away  from  him  the  moment  he  lost  contact  with  the  earth: 

‘T  think  that  tlie  Bolsheviks  remind  us  of  the  hero  of  Greek 
mythology,  Antaeus.  They,  like  Antaeus,  are  strong  because 
they  maintain  their  connection  with  their  mother,  the  masses, 
who  gave  birth  to  them,  suckled  them  and  reared  them.  And  as 
long  as  they  maintain  connection  with  their  mother,  with  the 
people,  they  have  every  chance  of  remaining  invincible.” 

The  specialised  Wellsian  Utopia  is  the  antithesis  of  socialism, 
which  regards  man  as  a flexible  and  many-sided  being,  capable  of 
a full  understanding  of  his  world  and  of  controlling  it.  Wells, 
accepting  imperialism  as  a basis,  only  wished  to  humanise  it: 
imperialism  makes  man  into  an  ever  more  specialised  instrument^ 
and  such  he  remains  in  Wells*  Utopias,  however  beautifully 
contrived  and  finely  tempered  he  may  be  allowed  to  become. 

Wells,  in  any  case,  placed  very  definite  limits  upon  what  man 
might  become.  We  have  seen  how  Morris  in  News  from  Nowhere 
chose  to  emphasise  the  transformation  of  human  nature:  in  Wells* 
Utopias  everything  changes  except  man — ^from  A Modem  Utopia 
to  Things  to  Come  men  are  surrounded  by  every  kind  of  mechanical 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW 


I9I 

marvel  and  continue  to  talk  and  act  like  turnips.  For  him  there  is 
something  permanent  and  unalterable  in  human  nature,  and  the 
unchanging  part  of  man  is  the  essential  part.  Utopian  man,  he 
says,  . 

^Vould  have  different  habits,  different  traditions,  different 
' knowledge,  different  ideas,  different  clothing  and  different 
appliances,  but,  except  for  all  that  (my  italics)  he  would  be  the 
same  man.  We  very  distinctly  provided  at  the  outset  that  the 
modern  Utopia  nlust  have  people  inherently  the  same  as  those 
in  the  world.” 

and 

“whatever  we  do,  man  will  remain  a competitive  creature.” 
Consequently, 

“it  is  our  business  to  ask  what  Utopia  will  do  with  its  drunkards 
and  men  of  vicious  mind,  its  cruel  and  furtive  souls,  its  stupid 
people,  too  stupid  to  be  of  use  to  the  community,  its  lumpish, 
unteachable  and  unimaginative  people?  And  whf't  will  it  do 
with  the  man  who  is  ‘poor’  all  round,  the  rather  spiritless, 
rather  incompetent  low-grade  man  who  on  cartli  sits  in  the  den 
of  the  sweater,  tramps  the  streets  under  the  banner  of  the 
unemployed,  or  trembles  -in  another  man’s  cast  off  clothing, 
and  with  an  infinity  of  hat  touching  —on  the  verge  of  rural 
unemployment?” 

In  his  Utopia,  it  wt»ald  appear,  such  people  are  to  be  produced 
in  as  great,  or  almost  as  great,  numbers  as  in  our  own  world, 
and  Wells,  regarding  this  as  'ncvitable,  has  no  solution  except 
bourgeois  eugenics.  In  A M’dern  XJtopia  he  grumbles  like  any 
Dean  Inge  about  the  way  the  poor  breed,  and  a whole  machinery 
exists  to  prevent  the  ‘inferior  types’  from  reproducing  themselves: 

“here  one  may  insist  that  Utopia  will  control  the  increase  of 
its  population.  Without  the  dctermuiation  and  ability  to  limit 
that  increase,  as  well  as  to  su  'uilatc  it  whenever  it  is  necessary, 
no  Utopia  is  possible.  That  was  clearly  demonstrated  by  Mal- 
thus  for  all  time.” 

\^ells  was  a believer  in  progress,  for  a whole  generation  he  was 
regarded  in  England  as  the  leading  apostle  of  progress,  his 
books  are  crammed  full  of  the  surprising  things  which  he  thought 
might  happen  to  us- -yet  at  the  bottom  things  remain  the  same. 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


192 

because  the  progress  is  purely  quantitative,  something  external  to 
man.  Beyond  that  he  could  not  go  and  that  is  why  his  books, 
though  some  of  them  had  a certain  usefulness  in  their  day,  have 
a thinness,  a vulgarity  and  a vagueness  which  reveals  itself  at 
critical  points  in  a cluster  of  generalities  trailing  off  into  a string 
of  dots: 

‘‘Science  is  no  longer  our  servant.  We  know  it  for  something 
greater  than  our  little  individual  selves.  It  is  the  awakening 
mind  of  the  race,  and  in  a little  while — In  a little  while — 
I wish  indeed  I could  watch  for  that  little  while,  now  that  the 
curtain  has  risen.  . . 

For  Wells  the  curtain  was  always  rising  but  the  play  never  began. 

He  could  not  see  the  play  because  the  play  was  the  struggle 
of  classes,  and  to  see  it  involved  the  recognition  of  the  class 
struggle  as  the  motive-force  of  historic  change.  He  was  born  into 
an  especially  depressed  section  of  the  lower  middle  class:  very 
early  he  rejected  the  outlook  of  that  class,  and  his  swift  success  as 
a writer  carried  him  out  of  it  economically  on  to  the  fringe  of  the 
ruling  class.  But  he  never  lost  one  of  its  most  marked  peculiarities, 
the  fear  of  the  mass  of  the  workers  from  which  it  feels  itself 
separated  by  so  narrow  a gulf.  This  fear  takes  two  forms,  fear  of 
slipping  down  into  the  ‘lower  world’,  ajid  fear  of  an  invasion 
from  that  world,  an  invasion  of  barbarians  levelling  all  before 
them. 

That  fear  remained  with  Wells  all  his  life.  He  might  pity  the 
workers,  he  might  want  to  brighten  their  lives,  but  he  could 
never  sec  them  as  anytliing  but  a destructive  force  which  must  be 
led  and  controlled  and,  if  necessary,  coerced.  In  that  interesting 
early  book.  When  ihe  Sleeper  Wakes^  which  has  a curious  and 
distorted  reflection  of  the  class  struggle  and  in  wliich  the  idea  of 
revolution  is  not  entirely  rejected,  the  workers  are  exploited  and 
rebellious,  but  can  only  revolt  under  the  leadership  of  a powerful 
section  of  the  upper  class,  and  the  hero  of  the  book,  the  Sleeper 
who  wakes  to  find  himself  the  owner  of  the  earth,  fights  the  battle 
of  the  workers  in  isolation  as  a champion  coming  to  them  from 
the  outside.  In  none  of  his  other  books  will  they  play  any  serious 
part  whatsoever. 

Below  the  crudely  confident  belief  in  progress,  in  the  capacity  of 
imperialism  to  shed  its  defects  and  transform  the  world  into 
Utopia,  there  lay  always  a deeper  pessimism.  The  Samurai  were 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  I93 

long  in  coming,  perhaps  the  Samurai  might  not  come  in  time.  The 
world,  which  Wells  always  saw  as  a class  of  difficult  small  boys 
to  be  lectured  at  and  instructed,  grew  less  and  less  attentive. 
Even  at  the  beginning  these  doubts  appear  unexpectedly,  as  in’ 
A Modern  Utopia  when  the  hero  admits: 

‘^At  present  we  seem  to  have  lost  heart  altogcdier,  and  *^ow 
there  arc  no  new  religions,  no  new  orders,  no  new  cults— no 
beginnings  any  rnorc.’* 

This  was  in  1905,  at  tlie  moment  when,  in  Russia,  a new  r;. vo- 
lutionary epoch  was  already  opening. 

But  this  was  not  the  kind  (>f  beginning  ^or  which  Wells  was 
looking,  or  was,  indeed,  capable  oi  seeing,  and  the  advance  of 
socialism  after  1917  and  the  growth  (»f  a wc'rld  revolutionary 
movement  did  not  comfort  him.  lie  grew  more  and  atigry, 
more  and  more  surprised  that  his  g >od  advice  was  never  taken. 
In  Men  Like  God^  Utopia  is  removed  to  a future  so  distant  that 
has  virtually  no  relation  to  cvisttng  realities  1 Ic  can  discern  no 
visible  link  between  the  present  and  the  future  in  which,  as  an 
article  of  faith,  he  still  professes  belief. 

In  his  very  last  book  Almd  at  the  hnd  oj  Its  I'ether  even  this 
distant  hope  was  abandoned: 

“The  end  of  cvcrytlJng  we  caU  lile  is  close  at  hand  and 
cannot  be  evaded.” 

It  seems  a strange  end  to  so  many  years  of  brisk  and  buoyant 
prophesying,  yet  the  end  is  implicit  in  tlie  beginning.  Wells  had 
many  admirable  qualities,  cou^  igc,  shrewdness,  energy  and  even 
generosity  when  his  prejudice  & were  not  touched,  but  with  them 
all  he  turned  his  back  upon  the  future,  and  not  all  his  gifts  ccmld 
enable  him  to  grow  the  eyes  in  tlie  back  of  his  head  wliich  would 
have  been  needed  to  enable  him  to  sec  things  as  they  really  were. 
Ilis  obscure  perception  of  what  was  h.  ppening  found  expression, 
perhaps,  in  a belief  that  to  sui'm’  ^e  man  must  bcccmic  s^imelhing 
which  he.  Wells,  could  no  longer  recognise  as  man. 

Perhaps  the  title  of  this  last  book  should  be  l^abianistn  at  the  End 
of  Its  Tether,  for  Fabianism,  inglorious  as  its  history  has  been,  is 
in  a sense  the  l^st  attempt  to  provide  capitalism  with  a forward- 
looking  body  of  ideas.  After  Wells  there  are  not,  and,  I think, 
cannot  be,  any  more  Fabian  Utopias,  or  any  Utopias  at  all  of  a 
positive  character.  The  forni  retains  its  popularity  but  its  use  is 


194  the  ENGLISH  UlOPIA 

negative,  to  convey  satire  or  despair  or  the  degeneration  of  certain 
types  of  intellectual  in  the  last  stage  of  capitalism.  The  positive 
answer  to  Wells  was  given  first  in  1917,  and,  in  a different  way, 
some  twenty  years  later,  when  the  two  greatest  Fabians,-  Sidney 
and  Beatrice  Webb  repudiated  their  whole  past  by  calling  their 
study  of  the  U.S.S.R.,  Sovkt  Comnnmisnr,  a Nbjp  Civilisation. 


2.  The  Mcishine-wreckers 

> 

Chesterton’s  The  Napoleon  of  Not  ting  Hill  opens  in  the  dim, 
sub-Fabian  England  of  an  England  in  which  everything 
seemed  to  have  reached  a full  stop,  an  England  which 

“believed  in  a thing  called  Evolution.  And  it  said  ‘All  theoretic 
changes  have  ended  in  blood  and  ennui.  If  we  change  we  must 
cliange  slowly  and  safely,  as  the  animals  change.  Natural 
revolutions  are  the  only  successful  ones.  There  has  been  no 
conservative  reaction  in  favour  of  tails.’ 

“And  some  things  did  change.  Things  that  were  not  much 
thought  of  dropped  out  of  sight.  Things  that  liad  not  often 
happened  did  not  happen  at  all.  Thus,  for  instance,  the  actual 
physical  force  ruling  the  country,  the  soldiers  and  police,  grew 
smaller  and  sma^er,  and  at  last  vanished  almost  to  a point.  The 
people  could  have  swept  the  few  remaining  policemen  away  in 
ten  minutes:  they  did  not  do  so  because  they  did  not  believe  it 
would  do  them  the  least  good.  They  had  lost  faith  in  revolu- 
tions. 

“Democracy  was  dead;  for  no  one  minded  the  governing 
class  governing.  England  was  now  practically  a despotism,  but 
not  an  hereditary  one.  Some  one  on  the  official  class  was  made 
King.  No  one  cared  how:  no  one  cared  who.  He  was  merely  an 
universal  secretary. 

“In  this  manner  it  happened  that  everything  in  London  was 
very  quiet.” 

The  whole  world  was  drab,  uniform  and  cosmopolitan:  the 
methods  of  Fabianism  had  been  successfully  applied,  but  Chester- 
ton did  not  believe  that  the  result  would  be  quite  what  they  had 
expected,  certainly  it  would  not  be  the  swift-moving,  brightly 
polished  Utopia  of  Wells:  whatever  might  succeed,  the  Wellsian 
attempt  to  make  Fabianism  exciting  must  fail. 

The  King  was,  in  fact,  chosen  by  lot,  and  in  the  lot  fell 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  I95 

Upon  one  Aubcron  Quin,  a youngish  man  who  was  then  possibly 
the  only  humourist  still  living.  As  a vast  public  practical  joke  he 
issued  d decree  that  all  London  boroughs  were  to  take  on  the 
trimmings  of  the  Middle  Ages,  provosts,  heralds,  town  guards* 
in  splendid  costumes  armed  with  halberds,  city  gates,  tocsin, 
curfew  and  the  rest  of  it.  In  due  time,  also  by  lot,  the  Provostship 
of  Notting  Hill  fell  to  Adam  W ayne,  a romantic  who  to^>k  the 
King’s  “Charter  of  the  Cities”  entirely  sericmsly,  and  when  the 
neighbouring  boroughs  wanted  to  drive  an  arterial  road  through 
Notting  Hill,  he  stood  upon  the  rights  ghen  him  by  the  Charter 
and  refused  to  let  it  pass.  In  the  war  that  followed,  Notting  Hill 
triumphed  against  fantastic  odds  by  a combination  of  luck  and 
military  genius.  And  in  doing  so,  and  because  of  tlie  passions  that 
the  war  aroused,  the  King’s  joke  was  transformed  into  a reality, 
not  only  for  Wayne  and  the  Notting  Hillers,  hut  also  lor  their 
opponents.  Life  became  colourful,  lomantic,  and  intensely  local, 
and,  though  the  dominance  of  Notting  Ihll  was  ended  twenty 
years  later  in  a great  battle  f<»ught  in  Kensington  Gardens,  the 
effects  of  its  victory  and  dominance  remained. 

Now  all  this  is  confused  enough.  Oji  one  level  it  is  excellent 
fooling  at  the  expense  of  W ells  and  the  Fabians.  On  another,  it  is 
clear  that  Chcstertc#n  understood  no  more  than  they  did  what  was 
really  happening  in  the  world.  Ihc  Imgland  of  his  last  chapters, 
after  the  victory  of  Notting  Hill,  has  a superficial  likeness  to  tint 
ot  JNeu's  from  ^on’here:  with  this  difference,  that  the  likeness 
only  touches  the  moot  ornamental  parts  of  the  superstiucturc, 
Chesterton,  if  he  thought  about  the  matter  at  all,  thought  that  this 
could  be  changed  arbitrarily  t will  without  any  change  in  the 
basis.  It  is  not  merely  that  the  book  is  a fantasy:  fantasy  is,  within 
limits,  a perfectly  justifiable  literary  form,  but  to  be  effective  it 
must  have  a valid  relation  to  reality,  one  must  be  able  to  say, 
granting  these  assumptions,  whatever  thay  may  be,  the  test 
follows  logically.  A world  where  anfUng  may  happen  can  have 
no  value  for  us. 

In  Chesterton’s  books,  even  in  The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hilly 
which  is  the  best  of  them,  we  often  do  feel  this,  because  the  thing 
which  Chesterton  wishes  to  happen  is  inherently  impossible.  He 
was  a bourgeois  radical  who  hated  imperialism  and  fought  it 
according  to  his  powers,  but  always  in  the  name  of  the  past,  in- 
spired by  the  dream  of  a return  to  the  small,  the  local  and  the 
peculiar.  Wells  had  accepted  imperialism,  Chesterton  ran  away 


196  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

from  it,  neither  could  grasp  the  dialectic  of  its  transforitiation  into 
socialism. 

For  Chesterton  the  result  was  that  his  opposition  was  un- 
directed and  futile  and  very  quickly  petered  out  into  a nt>n-stop 
acrobatic  turn.  Yet  his  indignation  was  real  enough,  and  in  1904, 
at  the  outset  of  his  career  as  a writer,  it  comes  over  very  clearly  in 
the  pages  of  Tbe  Napoleon  of  Notling  Hill^  it  a positive 

power  that  few  of  his  later  books  share.  This  indignation  is  given 
an  appropriate  form,  a sharpness  of  expression,  the  vividness  of 
something  actually  seen,  by  the  genesis  of  the  book.  Chesterton 
tells  us  in  his  Autobiography^  what  is  in  any  case  obvious  enough, 
from  the  pages  of  the  book  itself,  that  it  was  based  on  the  tales  he 
liked  to  tell  himself  as  a boy,  walking  among  the  streets  of  west 
London:  it  has  all  the  boy’s  delight  in  the  clear-cut  and  the 
uncompromising,  and  some  of  the  richness  (^f  a tale  long  carried 
in  the  heart.  It  was  the  young  Chesterton  who  was  Adam  Wayne 
planning  the  defence  of  Notting  Hill. 

At  any  rate,  when  he  w’anted  a frame  to  hold  his  diatribe 
against  imperialism,  against  the  1‘abianism  which  glorified  it,  and 
the  cosmopolitanism  which  was  its  natural  accompaniment,  this 
was  ready  to  his  hand.  When  we  remember  that  he  was  writing 
in  the  years  immediately  following  the  Boer  War,  of  which  he  had 
been  among  the  strongest  oj'jponents,  its  point  and  force  can  be 
appreciated.  Nowhere  is  this  clearer  than  in  the  splendid  scene  in 
which  Wayne  confronts  the  King  and  the  Provosts  who  are 
planning  the  road  which  would  mean  an  end  to  the  independence 
of  Notting  Hill:  the  King  says: 

*“You  have  come,  my  Lord,  about  Pump  Street?’ 

‘About  the  city  of  Notting  Hill,’  answered  Wayne,  proudly. 
‘Of  which  Pump  Street  is  a living  and  rejoicing  part.’ 

‘Not  a very  large  part,’  said  Barker,  contemptuously. 

‘That  which  is  large  enough  for  the  rich  to  covet,’  said 
Wayne,  drawing  up  his  head,  ‘is  large  enough  for  the  poor  to 
defend.’ 

The  King  slapped  both  his  legs  and  waved  his  feet  for  a 
second  in  the  air. 

‘Every  respectable  person  in  Notting  Hill,’  cut  in  Buck  with 
his  cold,  coarse  voice,  ‘is  for  us  and  against  you.  I have  plenty 
of  friends  in  Notting  Hill.’ 

‘Your  friends  are  those  who  have  taken  your  gold  for  other 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  I97 

men’s  hearthstones,  my  Lord  Buck,’  said  Provost  Wayne. 
T can  well  beheve  they  arc  your  friends.’ 

‘They’ve  never  sold  dirty  toys,  anyhow,’  said  Buck,  laughing 
shortly.  : 

‘They’ve  sold  dirtier  things,’  said  Wayne  calmly;  ‘they  have 
sold  themselves.’” 

For  aH  his  confusions,  which  were  many  and  which  finally 
destroyed  turn,  Ch^esterton  at  this  time  saw  two  things  clearly 
enough.  The  first  was  that  the  dull  bureaucratic  Utopia  of  the 
Fabians,  and  the  bright  mechanical  Lltopia  of  Wells  which  was  but 
a special  form  of  it,  merely  reflected  and  glorified  the  reality  of  the 
imperialism  which  he  hated.  J le  had  had  the  most  recent  prtn)f  of 
tliis  in  the  Fabian  support  of  the  Bc'.er  War,  on  thf  ground  that 
the  Boers  wt  re  ineificienr  and  out-of  date  atid  ought  to  be 
absorbed  into  the  modern  and  efficient  J^anpire.  The  second  was 
that  all  these  people  were  wrong  in  supj>osing  that  the  world  was 
entering  an  age  of  drabness  and  comisromisc.  lie  belie  ved  that  on 
the  contrary  it  was  entering  a revolutionary  and  therefore  an 
lieroic  age.  That  the  revolution  which  he  expected  was  quite 
diflerent  from  the  revolution  which  t(>ok  place,  and  that  he  failed 
to  see  in  that  revolution  when  ii  came  the  thing  he  had  foreseen,  is 
true  enough,  but  less  important  than  the  essential  rightness  of 
his  intuition.  As  W ayne  put  it  before  his  last  battle: 

“Wlien  I was  voting  I remember  in  the  old  dreary  days, 
wiseacres  used  to  write  books  about  how  trains  would  go  faster, 
and  all  the  world  would  be  one  empire,  and  tramcars  go  to  the 
moon.  And  even  as  a chil^.!  I used  to  say  to  myself,  ‘I"ar  more 
likely  that  we  shall  go  on  the  crusades  again  or  worship  the 
gods  of  the  city.’  And  so  it  has  been.” 

The  Napo/eofj  of  Noiiing  I Vill  was  the  first  blast  against  the  Fabian 
Utopia.  H.  M.  Forster  in  The  Machint  Stops  (written  about  191^, 
but  first  published  in  book  ft^rm  in  The  Eternal Moment\ and 
Aldous  I luxley  in  B7'avc  New  Worlds  attack  from  a different 
angle.  The  Utopia  of  Wells  is  capitalist  society  which  has  miracul- 
ously overcome  its  contradictions,  because  the  socialism  of 
Wells  is  utopian  socialism  developing  undialectically  not  as  a 
negation  but  as  a mere  continuation  of  bourgeois  society.  Marxists 
cannot  accept  such  a future  as  possible,  any  more  than  could 
Chesterton,  but  if  it  was  possible  would  still  reject  it  as  odious. 


198  THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

Wells  regarded  it  as  both  possible  and  desirable.  Forster  and 
Huxley,  accepting  it  as  possible,  rejected  it  as  intolerable,  though 
for  quite  different  reasons. 

The  sterilised,  cellophane  world  of  Wells  moved  Huxley  to 
loathing  and  contempt,  but  Forster  to  pity  and  terror.  This  is  in 
part  because  Forster  is  more  humane,  more  sensitive  and  more 
genuinely  civilised,  but  also  partly  because  it  was  more  possible 
in  1932  than  in  1912  to  see  the  horror  of  such  a world  carried  to 
its  logical  conclusions.  k 

*Tt  is  good,”  wrote  Lowes  Dickinson  of  The  Machim  Stops^  “that 
someone  should  take  the  Wells-Shaw  prophecies  and  turn  them 
inside  out.”  This  Forster  certainly  does.  He  describes  a world  state 
in  the  distant  future  in  which  man  has  gone  deep  underground, 
the  entire  surface  of  the  earth  having  been  abandoned.  Each 
individual  lives  alone  in  an  identical  room,  from  which  he  can  be 
in  television  contact  with  every  other  individual  throughout  the 
w^orld.  No  work  has  to  be  done,  since  every  need,  synthetic  food, 
synthetic  clothing  and  synthetic  culture  is  provided  by  ‘the 
Machine’  upon  the  pressure  of  the  appropriate  button.  On  the  rare 
occasions  on  which  they  leave  their  rooms  moving  platforms  and 
huge,  swift  airships  are  there  to  carry  them.  Their  minds  have 
become  passive  and  receptive,  their  bodies  torpid  and  feeble.  The 
whole  earth  is  a unity  linked  by  ‘the  Machine’,  which  has  long 
passed  beyond  human  control  and  is  on  the  way  to  being  wor- 
shipped as  a super-human  force: 

“The  Machine,”  they  exclaimed,  “feeds  us  and  clothes  us  and 
houses  us;  through  it  we  speak  to  one  another,  through  it  we 
see  one  another,  in  it  we  have  our  being.  The  Machine  is  the 
friend  of  ideas  and  the  enemy  of  superstition:  the  Machine  is 
omnipotent,  eternal;  blessed  is  the  Machine.” 

In  much  tlie  same  spirit,  and  witliout  any  apparent  ironic  inten- 
tion, Wells  makes  one  of  the  characters  in  The  World  Set  Tree 
boast  that  “Science  is  no  longer  our  servant.” 

And  just  as  the  hero  in  A Modern  Utopia  notes  with  approval 
the  absence  of  windows  in  the  express  train  which  carries  him  from 
Switzerland  to  London,  the  leading  character  in  The  Machine 
Stops^  Vashti,  in  a flight  across  the  world  to  visit  her  son  Kuno, 
can  find  nothing  to  interest  her  on  the  surface  of  the*  earth: 

“At  midday  she  took  a second  glance  at  the  earth.  The 
air-ship  was  crossing  another  range  of  mountains,  but  she  could 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  I99 

see  little,  owing  to  douds.  Masses  of  black  rock  hovered  below 
her,  and  merged  indistinctly  into  grey.  Their  shapes  were  fan- 
tastic?; one  of  them  resembled  a prostrate  man. 

‘“•No  ideas  here,’  murmured  Vashti,  and  hid  the  Caucasus* 
behind  a metal  blind. 

‘Tn  the  evening  she  looked  again.  ITiey  were  crossing  a 
goMen  sea,  in  which  lay  many  small  islands  and  one  peninsula. 

“She  repeated  ‘No  ideas  here,’  and  hid  Greece  behind  a 
metal  blind.”  « 

In  the  end  comes  catastrophe,  swift  and  complete,  “as  it  was  in 
days  of  Noe”.  The  Macliine  stops,  and  w'ith  its  slopping,  food, 
light  and  air  fail  and  the  entombed  millions  die.  In  the  darkness 
Vashti  and  Kuno  meet,  and  before  the  end  he  tells  her  of  his  visit 
to  the  upper  air  and  of  his  tliscovery  there  of  a remnant  upon  the 
earth  who  will  make  a new  beginning.  In  this  moment  the  truth 
about  their  civilisation  becomes  dear  to  them: 

■V 

“They  wxpt  for  humanity,  those  two,  not  for  themselves. 
They  could  not  bear  iliot  this  should  be  the  end.  Krc  silence  was 
comj)lcted  their  hearts  were  opened,  and  they  knew  what  had 
been  important  on  ilie  earth.  Man,  the  flower  of  all  flesh,  the 
noblest  of  all  creatures  visible,  man  who  had  once  made  god 
in  his  image,  and  had  mirrored  his  strength  on  the  constern- 
ations, beautiful  naked  man  was  dying,  strangled  in  the  gar- 
ments that  he  had  woven.  Century  after  century  had  he  toiled, 
and  here  was  his  .eward.” 

Here,  it  seems  to  me,  Forster  occupies  a position  midw^ay 
between  those  of  Morris  and  1 Tuxlcy.  All  three  reject  ‘modern 
civilisation’  as  Morris  used  sometimes  to  call  it.  But  Morris, 
though  at  times  lie  may  have  accepted  the  possibility  of  catas- 
trophe, had  also  grasped  the  dialectics  of  change,  fie  understood 
the  two-sided  nature  of  capitalism,  that  wliilc  it  corrupts,  it  also 
creates  the  class  which  can  transcend  it.  For  Forster  and  Huxley 
the  corruption  alone  is  apparent,  or  at  best  is  overwhelmingly 
preponderant.  But  Forster,  unlike  Huxley,  never  despairs  of 
humanity.  He  believes  in  human  fallibility,  where  Huxley  believes 
in  human  wickedness,  in  original  sin.  So  that  while  Forster 
believes  man  capable  of  a temporary  loss  of  direction,  Huxley 
does  not  believe  him  capable  of  finding  his  way  at  all — unless  by 
divine  Grace^  and  he  is  more  than  doubtful  if  Grace  will  be 


200 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


given.  Forster  perhaps  believes  that  man  is  now  lost,  that  a 
period  of  retreat  and  disaster  is  inevitable,  which  may  be  the 
reason  for  his  relative  silence,  but  always  he  holds  firm  to  the 
conviction  that  something  will  be  saved  and  a new  start  made, 
and  that  in  the  end  man  will  triumph. 

For  Forster  “Man  is  the  measure,”  but  for  Huxley  human  life 
is  meaningless  unless  it  can  be  evaluated  in  terms  of  something 
outside  itself.  Tn  Brave  New  Worldht  attacks  the  idea  of  humanism 
while  appearing  only  to  describe  s society  whose  sole  objects  are 
stability  and  happiness  in  the  lowest  and  most  mechanical  sense 
of  that  word.  A society  based  upon  humanism  is,  for  him, 
necessarily  evil.  Happiness  without  (irace  can  be  secured  only  at 
the  price  of  subordinating  the  individual,  of  distorting  him  to  fit 
a desired  pattern.  Huxley  is  unable  to  understand  that  a socialist 
society  is  a form  of  movement  in  which  each  individual  is  able 
to  reach  his  highest  potentialities  in  his  relation  to  other  indi- 
viduals, and  not  a universal  and  glorified  Butlin’s  Holiday  Camp. 

In  Brave  New  W'or/d  the  distortion  of  the  individual  is  total,  and 
takes  place  before  birth,  or  rather  before  decanting,  since  normal 
birth  has  long  been  abandoned.  Out  of  his  bottle  Huxley  pro- 
duces at  will  Samurai  or  low-grade  morons,  incapable  of  thought 
and  therefore  of  boredom.  For  all  alike,  from  Alpha  to  Moron, 
there  is  a prescribed  rioutine,  at  a suitable  level,  of  work,  games, 
promiscuity  and  Soma,  a drug  with  “all  the  advantages  of  Chiisl- 
ianity  and  alcohol;  none  of  their  defects”. 

Tnto  tliis  world  comes  a yemng  man  reared  by  accident  upon 
Shakespeare  and  myths  in  an  Indian  Reserv^ation  in  Mexico.  He 
reacts  violently  against  its  machine-like  order  and  demands 
as  his  birthright  the  right  to  be  unhappy: 

“‘But  I don’t  want  comfort.  I want  God,  I want  poetry,  I 
want  real  danger,  I want  freedom,  1 want  goodness.  I want 
sin.’ 

“ ‘In  fact,’  said  Mustapha  Mond,  ‘you’re  claiming  the  'right 
to  be  unhappy.’ 

“‘All  right,  then,’  said  the  Savage  defiantly,  ‘I’m  claiming 
the  right  to  be  unhappy.’ 

“‘Not  to  mention  the  right  to  grow  old  and  ugly  and 
impotent;  the  right  to  have  syphilis  and  cancer;  the  right  to 
have  too  little  to  eat;  the  right  to  be  lousy;  the  right  to  live  in 
constant  apprehension  of  what  may  happen  tomorrow;  the 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  201 

fight  to-  catch  typhoid;  the  fight  to  be  tofturcd  by  unspeakable 
pains  of  evefy  kind.* 

Thefe  was  a long  silence. 

“‘I  (Jairn  them  all,*  said  the  Savage  at  last.** 

All  this  is  quite  logical  and  unanswefable  if  you  accept  the 
mechanistic  postulates  which  Huxley,  for  all  hh  air  of  sc('»rnful 
superiority,  shares  with  Wells.  If  you  accept  the  idea  that  man  is 
essentially  unchanp^ing,  that  social  stability  can  only  be  preserved 
by  conditioning  everyone  for  one  special  job  and  making  sure 
that  he  does  it,  that  happiness  consists  in  being  mechanically  litted 
* for  this  job  as  a ball  fits  a socket  and  being  drugged  with  mechan- 
ical amusements  during  your  leisure  hours,  that  freedom  is  ignor 
ance  and  a blind  surrender  to  natural  fr)recs,  then  clearly  there  arc 
no  alternatives  except  the  Brave  New  Wc^rld  and  a hopeless 
barbarism.  In  this  situation  the  choice  of  Uiost  of  us  would, 
I think,  be  that  of  the  Savage.  Huxley  clearly  intends  us  to  regard 
this  as  his  own  preference,  but  it  is  difficult  tol"»e  convinced  of  tnc 
sincerity  of  one  who,  with  the  world  before  liim,  has  chosen  to 
leave  England  to  settle  in  IIollywM)od,  the  place  which  perhaps 
most  exactly  anticipates  the  life  described  hi  Brave  Nnv 
World 

Wells,  too,  seems  to  feel  that  some  such  ch(«ice  now  faces 
mankind.  In  Mind al  thi  bnd oj  I/s  1 'ethfv  he  writes: 

“Man  must  go  steeply  up  or  down,  and  tJic  odds  seem  to  be 
all  in  favour  of  hio  going  di^wn  and  out.  If  he  comes  up,  then 
so  great  is  the  adaptatiem  demanded  of  him  that  he  must  ctasc 
to  be  a man.  Ordinary  maii  is  at  the  end  of  his  tether.’* 

And  Huxley,  in  Ape  and  Essence^  of  which  something  must  be 
said  in  the  final  section,  has  described  with  unplcasing  relish  the 
descent  into  barbarism  which  he  thinks  cannot  be  long  delayed. 

Yet  in  fact  these  postulates  only  net  d to  be  clearly  stated  to  be 
exposed  as  self-evidently  false,  and  in  practice  they  arc  being 
shown  daily  to  be  false  before  our  eyes,  in  that  third  of  the  w'orld 
which  is  now  building  socialism  upon  quite  different  postulates. 
It  is  the  fact  of  the  building  of  socialism  which  gives  us  standards 
by  which  both  Wells  and  his  critics  can  be  judged  and  which  places 
our  understanding  of  Utopia  upon  a quite  new  footing.  As 
Nowhere  becomes  Somewhere  the  News  we  receive  from  it 
cannot  but  change. 


202 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


3.  The  Last  Phase 

• The  plight  of  the  latter-day  Utopians  is  neatly  stated  in  the 
passage  from  Nicholas  BerdiaefF  with  which  Huxley  prefaces 
Brave  New  World: 

‘'Utopias  seem  very  much  more  realisable  thaa  we  had 
formerly  supposed.  And  now  we  find  ourselves  face  to  face  with 
a question  which  is  painful  in  quite  a neW  way:  How  can  we 
avoid  their  actual  realisation? 

. . Utopias  are  capable  of  realisation.  Life  moves  towards. 
Utopia.  And  perhaps  a new  age  is  beginning  in  which  the 
intellectuals  and  the  cultured  class  will  dream  of  methods  of 
avoiding  Utopia  and  of  returning  to  a society  that  is  not 
Utopian,  that  is  less  ‘perfect^  and  more  free.*^ 

For  BerdiaefF,  for  Huxley,  for  the  class  which  they  represent, 
to-morrow  is  not  merely  *‘as  awful  as  to-day’’;  to-morrow  is  in- 
finitely worse,  to-morrow  is  unthinkable.  And  so,  in  this  last 
phase,  this  era  of  the  general  crisis  and  impending  overthrow  of 
capitalism,  Utopia  changes  its  character. 

For  the  greater  part  of  the  time  covered  by  this  book  the  bour- 
geoisie was  a proud  and  advancing  class,  growing  strong  within 
the  framework  of  feudalism,  aiming  at  state  power,  winning 
state  power,  and,  finally,  exercising  state  power.  I’hey  have  looked 
forward  with  confidence,  and  Utopia  was  what  their  best  represen- 
tatives, those  who,  on  the  whole,  were  able  to  see  beyond  the 
narrower  class  interests  and  identify  the  advance  of  the  bour- 
geoisie with  the  advance  of  humamty,  saw  it  at  the  end  of  the 
road.  It  was  a vision  that  was  hopeful  even  if  not  always  com- 
placent— even  if  some  of  the  Utopians  could  see  that  the  pledges 
of  the  bourgeois  revolution  were  not  being  honoured,  they  were 
confident  that  with  a little  good  advice,  a little  push  along  the 
right  road,  all  would  be  well. 

Partial  exceptions,  like  Blake,  there  certainly  were,  but  on  the 
whole  it  was  not  till  the  last  decades  of  the  nineteenth  century 
that  the  general  picture  changed.  Then  at  last  the  rise  of  a new 
class,  menacing,  indispensable,  could  not  be  ignored.  It  began  to 
be  clear  that  Utopia,  if  it  was  ever  to  be  realised,,  was  to  be  the 
outcome  of  a workers’  revolution  that  was  still  to  come,  not  the 
last  chapter  completing  the  bourgeois  revolution.  Hence  the 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  205 

alarm  of  Greg,  of  Donnelly,  of  Bramah.  In  the  last  two  Sections 
we  have  traced  the  process  further:  we  have  seen  the  reaction 
against*  the  crude  optimism  of  Wells,  and,  perhaps  even  more 
significantly,  we  have  seen  how  Weils  in  his  old  age  retreated  froni 
his  own  early  optimism. 

And  so,  in  a sense,  we  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  history  of  the 
English  Utopia:  on  the  one  hand  the  bourgeoisie  who  see  in  ihcir 
own  future  the  future  of  civilisation  cannot  now  contemplate 
that  future  with  anything  but  despair,  on  the  other,  the  working 
class  and  their  allies  who  arc  actually  fighting  to  win  or  to  build 
, socialism  are  seldom  inclined  to  construct  imaginary  pictures  of  a 
future  that  is  shaping  itself  under  their  hands.  Yet  the  utopian 
form  has  too  strong  a *hold  over  men’s  minds  to  be  so  easily 
abandoned,  and  during  the  la<it  decades  it  has  been  used  for  a 
variety  of  purposes,  all  very  different  from  those  of  the  classical 
utopias  of  the  past. 

To  this,  as  to  so  many  generalisations,  ^ there  appears  one 
exception.  An  Unknown  I^/;;Jby  Lord  Samuel,  published  m 1942, 
but  ‘planned  and  largely  w’tittcn  bctorc  the  w'ar’.  Here,  indeed, 
we  have,  in  the  form  of  a sequel  to  Bacon’s  New  Atlantis some- 
thing that  has  quite  the  air  of  a utopia  in  the  traditional  style,  so 
much  so,  that  it  suggests  an  academic  exercise  rather  than  a serious 
original  work.  And  Samuel,  like  the  J iberal  Party  of  which  he  is 
the  acknowledged  theoretician  and  philosopher,  is  himself  some- 
thing of  a survival  in  these  days. 

As  might  be  expected  in  a requel  to  JNew  Atlantis^  great  em- 
phasis is  placed  upon  the  advance  of  scienci*  and  invention,  and 
upon  education.  But  the  mo  t immediately  striking  thing  is  that 
when  the  Liberal  pbilosophc"*  has  to  c(»nstruct  an  ideal  economy, 
the  one  which  he  is  forced  to  adopt  is  based  on  the  classic  Alarxist 
formula  “from  each  according  to  his  ability,  to  each  according 
to  his  needs”.  Samuel’s  Utopia,  like  More’s,  is  a classless,  com- 
munist society,  and  it  is  at  least  to  his  ciedit  that  he  abandons 
all  the  clumsy  devices  to  which  Bellamy,  Ilertzka  or  Wells  were 
driven  to  construct  a plausible  Utopia  on  any  other  basis. 

It  would  be  too  much  to  expect  in  addition  that  Bensalcm 
should  have  reached  the  classless  society  by  way  of  class  struggle 
or  revolution,  On  the  contrary,  class  struggle  had  little  place  in 
Bensal  history,  and  their  views  upon  revolution  were  identical 
with  those  of  an  English  Whig  of  the  twentieth  century: 

1 Sec  Chapter  III,  Section  i. 


204  the  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 

“The  essence  of  a revolution  is  violence;  it  may  seek  moral  or 
humane  ends,  but,  by  using  means  that  are  immoral  and  cruel, 
it  pushes  those  ends  farther  away.  Nor  is  it  ever  true  to  say 
• that  ‘things  cannot  be  worse  than  they  are\  They  always  can, 
and  they  often  become  so.  Misery  breeds  revolution,  and  revo- 
lution breeds  fresh  miseries.” 

The  Bcnsal  social  system,  therefore. 

“was  not  established  suddenly,  through  some  revolutionary 
upheaval,  it  grew  up  during  ceniuries;  but  under  the  stimulus 
of  siiturization,  the  last  hundred  years  has  seen  a more  rapid 
advance  than  ever  before.” 

Suturization,  an  operation  by  which  the  skulls  and  consequently 
the  natural  capacities  of  the  children  v/ere  enlarged,  is  presented, 
in  fact,  as  the  operative  miracle  producing  social  change.  This  is 
typical  of  the  latest  phase  of  utopianism.  Unless  the  class  struggle 
is  recognised  as  the  means  of  changing  society,  that  change  must 
always  come  from  something  outside — from  a Prince,  as  in  the 
earlier  Utopias,  from  abstract  reason  or  some  unexplained  change 
of  heart,  or  from  some  creative  miracle,  and,  since  the  decay  of 
religious  faith  has  made  it  difllcult  for  us  to  accept  miracles  in  the 
sense  of  a supernatural  intervention  in  human  affairs,  the  modern 
utopian  writers  turn  to  science  in  the  hope  that  it  will  pro\ide. 
This  tendency  we  have  seen  clearly  in  \\  ells,  and  it  can  be  found 
in  another  fotm  in  Shaw’s  Back  to  Methuselah^  which  turns  on  the 
possibility  of  men  willing  to  live  for  three  hundred  years. 

Whatever  form  it  takes,  it  is  in  practice  an  affirmation  that 
society  cannot  be  changed  without  some  physical,  biological 
change  in  man,  and  this  is  brought  out  by  Samuel  in  another  way. 
Just  as  Wells  in  Men  Like  Gods  represented  the  working  class  by 
two  chauffeurs  who  reject  the  Utopian  way  of  life  even  more 
emphatically  than  their  ‘betters’,  so  here,  the  crew  of  the  ship  on 
which  Samuel’s  hero  reaches  Utopia  are  drawn  as  complete 
political  illiterates,  accepting  without  question  the  crudest  bour- 
geois economic  and  social  ideas  and  rejecting  with  an  instant  and 
unanimous  horror  the  classless  utopian  society  of  Bensalcm.  It  is 
clear  that  Samuel,  like  Wells,  never  for  a moment  regards  the 
workers  as  a positive  political  force. 

As  if  all  this  were  not  enough  to  make  it  clear  tjiat  his  ‘com- 
munism’ has  nothing  in  common  with  that  of  Marx  or  Lenin, 
Samuel  adds  a little  farce  in  the  form  of  a visit  to  a group  of 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  205 

small  islands  lying  off  the  Bensal  coast  whose  way  of  life  reflects 
that  of  the  main  European  countries  as  he  secs  them.  Upon  one 
of  thes'e  islands,  Ulmia: 

theorist  arose,  with  a creed  that  purported  to  be  simple; 
logical  and  based  on  a comprehensive  survey  of  the  facts  of 
history;  but  which  was  in  fact  complicated,  muddle-headed  and 
partial* to  the  last  degree.  Justifying  themselves  by  this  theory, 
a few  violent  men  carried  out  the  revolution,  and  l^ast  Island 
became  ‘The  Union  of  Logical  Materialist  Idealists". 

“So  far  as  I could  understand  it,  the  theory  seemed  to  be 
based  on  a strange  doctrine  that  human  societies  arc  simply  the 
products  of  economic  factors,  and  that  the  whole  history  of 
mankind  is  nothing  more  than  variations  on  a single  theme — 
the  production  and  consumption  of  things.  Holding  these  ideas 
the  people  had  taken  materialism  as  their  creed  and  Fools  as 
their  emblem;  their  national  badge  was  a Pitchlork  crossed  by 
a Saw,  with  the  motto  ‘Things  Rule  Men’.  * 

“The  theory,  Lamon  said  to  mt,  insist!  d upon  a state  of 
society  that  was  classless  and  equalitarian.  ‘Our  own  system 
in  Bensalcm",  he  said,  ‘is  also  of  that  order.  But  while  that  has 
been  built  up  over  a period  ot  centuries,  on  the  principle  of 
raising  the  whole  population  to  the  standard  reached  by  the 
highest,  the  equality  here  was  brought  about  by  the  much 
simpler,  and  much  quicker,  method  of  bringing  everyone 
dowrn  to  the  standard  of  the  lowest."” 

Satire  has  always  been  recognised  as  a legitimate  weapon  of  the 
utopian  worker,  and  Marxism  and  the  U.S.S.R.  arc  as  legitimate 
targets  for  satire  as  any  others,  but  it  is  hardly  satire  to  attacli  to 
anything  a string  of  qualities  and  beliefs  which  it  does  not  possess. 
And,  while  misrepresentation  of  Marxism  is  fairly  common,  it  is 
a little  surprising  to  find  a writer  of  bamuel’s  eminence  so  ignorant 
of  its  most  elementary  principles,  oi  so  httle  concerned  to  state 
them  fairly,  as  these  paragraphs  show  him  to  be.  The  book  aS 
a whole,  giving  with  one  hand  and  taking  away  with  the  other,  and 
coming  to  the  conclusion  that  what  is  needed  in  Britain  is,  broadly 
speaking,  a slightly  more  rapid  advance  along  the  road  now  being 
followed,  has  an  air  of  weariness  and  banality,  fully  reflecting  the 
dead  end  which  Liberal  thought  has  now  icaclied. 

Such  as  it  is,  however,  it  is  the  only  utopia  of  recent  years  with 
any  pretensions  to  a positive  character.  Some  other  works  may  be 


2o6 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


passed  over  with  the  barest  mention.  There  are,  firsts  the  large 
class  of  quite  ephemeral  books  which  make  use  of  the  utopian 
form  as  the  scafiblding  for  a work  of  fiction  whose  main  purpose 
is  to  entertain:  their  only  importance  is  as  evidence  of  the  con- 
tinued popularity  of  this  form.  Typical  of  such  books,  at  different 
levels,  are  Orphan  Island  by  Rose  Macaulay,  Lj>sf  Hon\on 
by  James  Ifilton,  and  They  found  Atlantis  by  Dennis 
Wheatley.  Of  these  the  most  respectable  is  Orphan  Island  a 
lively  fantasy  of  a community  gri-^wing  from,  the  shipwreck  on  a 
Pacific  island  in  1855  of  a number  of  orphan  children  under  the 
charge  of  a pious  and  strong-minded  maiden  lady.  Its  rediscovery 
after  seventy  years  gives  scope  for  entertaining  if  superficial  satire 
upon  aspects  both  of  Victorian  and  contemporary  English  life, 
and  the  appeal  of  the  Utopian  and  the  desert  island  fantasies  are 
cunningly  exploited  in  combination. 

Another  group,  which,  while  having  a certain  utopian 
character,  is  hardly  within  the  scope  of  this  book,  is  the  ‘scientific’ 
fantasy  of  the  future.  Here  there  is  an  immense  field,  rising  from 
the  American  pulp  fiction  which  leaves  Wells  far  behind  in  its 
furious  exploration  of  intcr-stcllar  space,  to  such  serious  works  as 
Shaw’s  Back  to  Methuselah  (1921),  J,  B.  S.  Haldane’s  The  Last 
judgment  and  C )laf  Staplcdon’s  Last  and  First  Men , 

The  growth  of  fascism  in  the  1920s  and  the  creation  of  a broad 
anti-fascist  unity  had  also  its  utopian  reflection.  Two  avowedly 
anti-fascist  negative  utopias,  written  as  a warning  of  what  the 
world  might  become  if  fascism  triumphed,  are  Joseph  O’Neill’s 
Ijind  Under  England  and  Murray  Constantine’s  Swastika 
Night, 

In  Swastika  Night  the  whole  world  is  divided  between  a German 
and  a Japanese  Empire,  equal  in  power  and  identical  in  policy  and 
methods.  In  the  German  Empire,  with  which  the  book  deals,  all 
the  existing  tendencies  of  fascism  are  developed  to  their  logical 
conclusion.  Around  the  worship  of  Hitler  a complete  hierarchical 
society  has  been  elaborated: 

“As  a woman  is  above  a worm, 

So  is  a man  above  a woman. 

As  a man  is  above  a woman. 

So  is  a Nazi  above  any  foreign  Hitlerian. 

As  a Nazi  is  above  a foreign  Hitlerian, 

So  is  a Knight  above  a Nazi. 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW 


207 


As  a Knight  is  above  a Na;2i, 

So  is  Der  Feuhrer  (whom  may  Hitler  Bless) 

Above  all  Knights.” 

Womeii  are  entirely  degraded,  and  men,  even  if  German  Nas'is,  are 
illiterate  serfs,  violence  and  brutality  characterise  all  relationships, 
race  superiority  has  become  an  absolute  principle. 

Most  hitcresting,  perhaps,  is  a point  afterwards  claboral  d by 
George  Orwell,  the  complete  obliteration  of  the  past — all 
history,  all  literatflre,  all  ancient  monuments  have  been  swept 
away,  so  that  nothing  can  remain  to  remind  n^n  of  a civilised  past 
before  the  coming  of  fascism,  and  so,  pcrliaps,  form  centres  of 
resistance.  Around  this  is  developed  the  book’s  simple  plot,  of  an 
old  Knight  in  whose  family  there  exists  a tradition  of  secret 
nonconformity,  and  who  has  preserved  the  sc^Ie  remaining  record 
of  the  ancient  days.  This  he  hands  on  to  an  Imglishman,  and,  we 
are  to  infer,  from  this  knowledge  may  grfiw'  nn  opposition  which 
will  ultimately  destroy  fascism.  Despite  this  hope,  the  gcnc»*al 
effect  is  negative  and  depressing— we  arc  shown  fascism  as  some- 
thing to  be  feared,  we  arc  not  shown  how  it  may  be  fought, 

Ihc  same  is  true  of  Umier  hugland^  a book  on  a mucli 

higher  technical  level.  Here  we  have,  not  a direct  description  of 
fascism,  but  a kind  of  allegoiy.  The  hero,  exploring  the  Roman 
Wall,  discovers  a way  down  into  a dark  underworld,  where, 
among  monsters  and  fungi,  survive  descendants  ol*  Romans  w^ho 
escaped  there  at  tlic  time  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  conquest.  Faced  with 
madness  and  disini».grauon  by  the  horror  of  perpetual  nigiit, 
these  people  had  evolved  a society  m w hich  individual  conscious- 
ness, and  even  speech,  had  disappeared,  in  which  the  Roman 
qualities  of  discipline  and  ob-dicncc  had  been  catried  to  a degree 
in  which  no  one  had  any  life  except  as  a function  of  the  state. 
Hvery  action,  every  thought,  that  was  not  needed  by  the  state 
had  not  merely  disappeared  but  had  become  psychologically 
impossible. 

The  analogy  with  contenmorary  fascism  is  only  hinted  at  ir 
the  text,  but  it  is  emphasised  in  a Foreword  contributed  by  A.F., 
who  writes: 

“The  highest  form  satire  can  take  is  to  assume  the  apotheosis 
of  the  poBcy  satirised  and  make  our  shuddering  humanity 
recoil  from  the  spectacle  of  the  complete  realisation  of  its  own 
ideals.  And  this  is  what  Joseph  O’Neill  has  done  in  imagining 


2o8 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


a State  where  the  unity  of  obliterated  individualism  is  complete, 
where  the  Master,  or  Hitler,  of  his  Utopia,  has  a selfless 
humanity  completely  malleable  to  his  will;  and  we  recoil  from 
• the  vision  of  that  perfection  of  mechanised  humanity,  as  if  we 
had  peered  into  one  of  the  lowest  of  human  hells.” 

In  nearly  all  these  books  the  main  note  is  that  of  retreat  —retreat 
into  fantasy,  into  an  unscientific  exploitation  of  ‘science’,  into 
gloom  for  the  sake  of  gloom.  In  nearly  all  of  them  there  is  the 
abandonment  of  the  belief  that  a just  and  decent  society  is  possible 
and  can  grow  out  of  existing  society.  More  recently  this  retreat 
has  become  a rout  and  in  such  books  as  Aldous  Huxley’s  Ape 
and  Essence  and  George  Grwell’s  Nineteen  Eightj-Eour 

we  have  the  frankest  reaction,  a determination  to  resist  the 
“actual  reaUsalion”  of  Utopia,  a deep  conviction  that  we  must 
cling  to  all  existing  institutions,  however  corrupt,  since  any 
change  can  only  be  for  the  worse. 

It  is  perhaps  unfair  to  couple  with  such  degraded  books 
Herbert  Read’s  The  Green  Child  ^ yet  in  this  brilliant,  intio- 
cent  romance  the  retreat  from  the  complex  reality  of  the  contem- 
porary world  is  already  strongly  marked.  Read  describes  two 
Utopian,  simplified,  finite  and  abstracted  worlds— one  a tiny 
South  American  Republic  in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  the  other  under  die  ground.  Into  this  latter  world  he 
tries  to  convey  some  of  the  knowledge  of  the  upper  earth,  but  he 
finds  that  this  is  impossible: 

“His  evidence  was  of  no  more  value  than  that  of  a man  who 
has  woken  from  a vivid  dream.  His  dream  was  real  but  it  was 
unique,” 

In  fact,  it  is  the  uniqueness  of  Read’s  dream,  its  total  lack  of 
relation  to  any  of  our  experience  which  robs  it  of  reality.  The 
world  he  describes  resembles  in  some  ways  the  last  part  of  Back 
to  Methuselah',  after  a period  of  youthful  play  and  sexual  freedom 
its  people  graduate  by  stages  to  work  of  a simple  kind,  to  intellec- 
tual pleasures,  and  finally  to  solitary  contemplation  ending  in 
death,  after  which  their  bodies  are  preserved  for  ever  in  a 
crystallised  state.  It  is  the  simplicity  of  the  crystal  towards  which 
everything  in  this  world  strives,  and  it  is  in  the  collection,  the 
arrangement  and  the  contemplation  of  crystals,  and  the  ringing  of 
changes  upon  sets  of  crystal  gongs,  that  their  pleasures  and  their 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  209 

philosophy  alike  revolve.  Shaw,  in  Back  ta  Methuselah^  diagnosed 
in  advance  the  state  of  mind  which  The  Green  Child  reveals: 

“Tyndall  declared  that  he  saw  in  Matter  the  promise  and 
potency  of  all  forms  of  life,  and  with  his  Irish  graphic  lucidity 
made  a picture  of  a world  of  magnetic  atoms,  each  atom  witlx 
a positive  and  a negative  pole,  arranging  itself  by  attraction  and 
repulsion  in  orderly  crystalline  structure.  Such,  a picture  is 
dangerously  fascjjnating  to  thinkers  oppressed  by  die  bloody 
disorders  of  the  living  world.  Craving  for  purer  subjects  of 
thought,  they  find  in  the  conception  of  crystals  and  magnets 
a happiness  more  dramatic  and  less  Childish  than  the  liappiness 
found  by  mathematicians  in  abstract  numbers,  because  they  see 
in  the  crystals  beauty  and  mc/vcrr.cnt  without  the  corrupting 
appetites  of  fleshly  vitality.” 

Read,  like  his  hero,  longs  for  <^'rdei  and  beaut; . He  hopes  to  find 
these,  first,  in  the  pastoral  slmplicitj  of  liiS  South  American 
Utopia,  but  fails,  and,  following  die  significant  image  of  the 
stream  flowing  backward  to  its  source,  discovers  them  finaUy 
in  an  unhuman  race  to  whom  death  is  the  highest  form  of  being. 
It  is  the  same  vision  as  that  which  he  expressed  muc  h earlier  in  one 
of  his  poems: 

“New  children  must  be  born  of  gods  in 
a deathless  land,  where  the 
uneroded  rocks  bound  clear 
from  cool 

glassy  tarns,  and  where  no  flaw  is  in  mind  or  flesh. 

“Sense  and  image  they  must  refashion — 
they  will  not  recreate 
love:  love  ends  in  hate;  they  will 
not  use 

words:  words  lie.” 

It  is  a vision  that  holds  litde  hope  for  the  future,  but  it  is  not 
an  ignoble  vision  like  those  of  Huxley  and  Orwell.  Ape  and 
Essence  is  not  so  much  a recantation  as  a complement  of  Brave  Nejv 
World.  In  that  book  the  capitalist  world  had  carried  itself  to  a 
triumphant  climax  of  servile  prosperity;  today  Huxley  prefers  to 
back  the  other  horse  and  describe  it  destroying  itself  in  a third 
World  War,  fought  to  a finish  with  every  sort  of  atomic  and 
bacteriological  weapon.  It  i$  in  the  post-war  ruin  that  his  scene  is 


210 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


set.  Here,  in  Los  Angeles,  a handful  of  savages,  degraded,  disease- 
ridden,  “as  rude  as  barbarism,  but  lacking  both  the  hope  and  the 
pleasure  of  barbarism”,  exist  parasitically  upon  the  corpse  of 
civilisation,  using  books  for  fuel  and  plundering  graves  for 
clothes.  A ship  from  New  Zealand,  which,  by  its  geographical 
position  had  alone  escaped  destruction,  appears  off  the  coast,  and 
a New  Zealand  biologist  falls  into  the  hands  of  the  barbarians. 
He  finds  that  Belial  is  now  god,  since  evil  has  finally  .triumphed, 
and  this  remnant  of  humanity  pays  him  propitiatory  rites  in  a 
hopeless  attempt  to  stave  off  annihilation.  The  Arch- Vicar  of 
Belial  explains  to  his  visitor  how  it  all  happened: 

“It  began  with  machines  and  the  first  grain  ships  from  the 
New  World.  Food  for  the  hungry  and  a burden  lifted  from 
men’s  shoulders. . . . 

“But  Belial  knew  that  feeding  means  breeding.  In  the  old 
days  when  people  made  love  they  merely  increased  the  infantile 
mortality  rate  and  lowered  the  expectation  of  life. . . , 

“Yes,  Belial  foresaw  it  all — ^the  passage  from  hunger  to 
imported  food,  from  imported  food  to  booming  population 
and  from  booming  population  back  to  hunger  again.  Back  to 
hunger.  The  New  Hunger,  the  Higher  Hunger  ...  the  hunger 
that  is  the  cause  of  total  wars  and  the  total  wars  that  are  the 
cause  of  yet  more  hunger. . . . 

“Progress  and  Nationalism — those  were  the  two  great  ideas 
He  put  into  their  heads.  Progress — the  theory  tliat  you  can  get 
something  for  nothing;  the  theory  that  you  can  gain  in  one 
field  without  paying  for  your  gain  in  another.  . . . Nationalism 
— the  theory  that  the  state  you  happen  to  be  subject  to  is  the 
only  true  god.” 

Two  things  stand  out:  Huxley’s  firm  persuasion  of  the  folly 
and  wickedness  of  mankind,  and  his  malthusiasm  (to  use  a new 
word  coined  by  James  Fyfe  in  The  Modern  Quarterly).^  This  is  no 
new  belief  with  him:  twenty  years  earlier  in  Antic  Hay  he  had 
declaimed  about: 

1 “The  Malthusian  ideas  do  not  die.  On  the  contiary  they  go  from  bad  to  worse. 
Their  latest  exponent,  Vogt,  in  his  book  Tbe  Road  to  Survival  expounds  the  notion  that 
not  only  is  the  rate  of  mcreasc  of  food  supplies  limited,  but  there  is  a limit  beyond 
which  they  cannot  increase  at  all.  Vogt*s  enthusiasm  for  war,  pes^'ilence  and  famine 
as  factors  limiting  the  growth  of  human  populations  deserves  a special  name  for 
which  I propose  the  word  malthustasw**  (TJbe  Modern  Quarterly^  Vol.  VI,  No.  3,  p. 
aoi). 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  Zll 

*‘The*  way  they  breed.  Like  maggots,  sir,  like  maggots. 
Millions  of  them  creeping  about  the  face  of  the  country, 
spreading  blight  and  dirt  wherever  they  go,  ruining  everything. 
It’s  die  people  I object  to.  . . . ; 

ith  populations  that  in  Europe  alone  expand  by  millions 
every  year,  no  political  foresight  is  possible.  A few  years  of  this 
mefe  bestial  propagation  will  suffice  to  make  nonsense  ( f the 
wisest  scjiemes  of  today — or  would  suffice  if  any  wise  schemes 
were  being  matured  at  present.” 

^ It  is  this  combination  of  mallhusiasm  and  hatred  which  is 
most  characteristic  and  makes  Ape  and  ] essence  so  like  a fictit)nised 
version  of  Vogt’s  The  Road  to  SurvivaL  Huxley  sees  disaster  ahead 
not  because  of  the  false  policies  of  capitalism,  not  because  of  any 
mistakes  whicli  might  be  corrected,  but  because^  men  are  maggots 
and  deserve  disaster  if  only  as  puni‘ihmcnt  for  their  presumption, 
because,  “these  wretched  slav(‘s  of  wheels  and  ledgers  began  to 
congratulate  themselves  on  being  the  C'onquerors  of  Nature. ” 

The  very  idea  of  progn  ss,  of  a world  better  than  that  we  now 
know,  being  absurd,  the  practical  cotielusion  is  obvious  -that 
we  must  avoid  all  attempts  at  change,  must  accept  every  existing 
injustice  and  misery  lest  in  tf)  ing  to  put  them  right  we  upset  the 
‘equilibrium  of  Nature’,  must  allow  M.ikhus’  natural  checks  once 
more  to  operate  and  so,  perhaps,  escape  the  worst  (T  tJic  disasters 
which  Huxley  describes  with  something  unpleasantly  like  relish. 
It  is  significant  that  ho  never  indulges  in  a general  diatribe  without 
adding  a specific  sneer  directed  against  Communism  and  the 
Soviet  Union,  and  not  less  s gniiicant  that  Ape  and  h^senre  has 
been  so  widely  praised  in  th : United  Stat<  s. 

It  might  be  thought  tliat  this  hook  represented  the  low^cst 
depths  to  which  the  new  genre  of  anti-utopias  could  fall,  but  the 
publication  a year  Inter  of  Nineteen  h/gh/y-T'onr  robbed  it  ot  e'^^en 
that  distinction.  Here  wc  arc  introduce*!  to  a world  divided  among 
three  ‘communist’  states  which  exist  in  a condition  of  permanent 
war,  permanent  scarcity,  permanent  purges  and  permanent 
slavery.  The  ‘hero’  of  the  book  is  employed  in  the  Ministry  of 
Truth,  whose  task  it  is  not  only  to  deceive  the  people  about  what  is 
actually  happening,  but  continually  to  recreate  the  past  so  that  it 
is  impossible  .to  discover  the  truth  about  anything  that  has  ever 
happened.  For  these  purposes  a new  language  ‘Double  Talk’  is 
being  evolved,  in  which  ‘Thought  Crime’,  that  is  to  say  any  idea 


212 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


not  in  line  with  the  policy  of  the  state  at  any  given  moment,  will 
become  impossible.  This  goal  has  not  yet  been  reached,  and  the 
hero  does  fall  into  ‘Thought  Grime*  as  well  as  into  ‘Sex  Crime*, 
'.that  is  to  say  into  love  or  a rather  shoddy  substitute  for  it.  It  is 
worth  noting  that  in  Orwell*s  world  compulsory  chastity  plays 
the  same  role  as  compulsory  promiscuity  in  Brave  New  World-— 
the  object  in  each  case  being  to  prevent  normal  sexual  feelirtg,  and 
so  to  degrade  sex  that  it  cannot  afford  any  basis  for  individuality. 

As  a consequence  of  their  crin^s  the  hero  and  his  mistress  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  Ministry  of  Love,  where  he  undergoes 
months  of  torture,  lovingly  described  by  Orwell  in  great  detail, 
and  is  finally  released  an  empty  shell,  complctch  broken  and 
stripped  of  any  trace  of  humanity.  The  whole  account,  like 
A^pe  and  hs^ence^  is  tricked  out  with  a pretence  of  philosophic 
discussion,  but  as  an  intellectual  attack  on  Marxism  it  is  benenth 
contempt.  W'hat  C')rwcll  does  do  with  great  skill  is  to  play  upon 
the  lowest  fears  and  prcjudicts  engendered  by  bourgeois  society  in 
dissolution.  His  object  is  not  to  argue  a case  but  to  induce  an 
irrational  conviction  in  the  minds  of  his  readers  that  any  attempt 
to  realise  socialism  must  lead  to  a world  of  corruptit)n,  torture  and 
insecurity.  To  accomplish  this  no  slander  is  too  gn)ss,  no  device 
too  filthy:  N/m/cen  hrgi/y-I'onr  is,  for  this  country  at  least,  the  last 
word  to  date  in  counter-revolutionary  apologetics. 

This  would  be  a sordid  ending  to  a splendid  story  if  it  were  in- 
deed the  cud.  But  of  course  it  is  not.  The  vety  degeneracy  of 
such  books  as  Ape  and  hssence  and  Nineteen  lughtyA^'onr  is  in 
itself  a symptom  of  the  approach  to  a new  stage.  Such  books 
are  an  acknowledgement  by  the  defenders  of  bourgeois  society 
that  they  have  now  nothing  left  to  defend,  of  the  inability  of  that 
society  to  provide  any  prospect  of  life  for  the  pco])le,  let  alone 
any  hope  of  advance.  In  this  sense  they  should  be  called  anti- 
utopias  rather  than  utopias,  since  the  essence  of  the  classical 
utopias  of  the  past  was  a belief  that  by  satire,  by  criticism  or  by 
holding  up  an  example  to  be  followed,  they  could  help  to  change 
the  world.  In  this  they  have  had  a positive  part  to  play,  they 
have  stimulated  thought,  led  men  to  criticise  and  fight  against 
abuses,  taught  them  that  poverty  and  oppression  were  not  a part 
of  a natural  order  of  things  which  must  be  endured. 

Nor  is  this  all.  We  can  see  today  in  the  building  pf  socialism  a 
transformation  of  man  and  of  nature  on  a scale  never  before 
attempted.  The  fantasies  of  Cokaygne,  the  projects  of  Bacon,  the 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW  ZX) 

anticipations  of  Ernest  Jones  are  in  effect  being  translated  into 
facts  in  the  Stalin  Plans  which  are  now  changing  the  face  and  the 
climate*of  the  U.S.S.R.  Writing  of  only  one  aspect  of  these  plans. 
Professor  Bernal  said  recently: 

“This  irrigation  and  afforestation  is  an  over-all  plan  covering 
the  .whole  of  the  dry  areas  of  the  Soviet  Union,  ranging  fn;iii 
absolute  desert  to  very  dry  sandy  sicppc,  and  steppe  liable  to 
drought.*  The  total  area  involved  is  something  like  two 
million  square  iftiles,  twice  the  size  of  \X'cst(*rn  Europe,  or 
two-thirds  the  area  of  the  United  States.  This  v'holo  area  is 
• being  transformed  by  three  simultaneous  and  cotnplcincntary 
operations — an  afforestation  scheme,  a hydro  clertrie  and 
navigation  canal  scheme  and  an  irrigation  and  soil-conservation 
scheme.  Though  separately  adinini^'tefed  tliese  form  part  of  one 
coherent  plan.” 

This  realisation  of  Utopia  ihnnigli  the  power  of  the  working 
class,  which  the  Jiuxle)s  and  Orwells  lind  sc>  terrifying,  is  the 
vindication  of  the  belief  that  hr»s  lain  at  the  roots  of  all  the  great 
utopian  writings  oi  the  jmst,  the  belief  in  the  capacity  and  the 
splendid  future  of  mankind. 

To-day  the  long  and  honoured  stream  of  utopian  writers  has 
entered  and  made  a noble  contribution  to  die  great  river  of  the 
movement  for  socialism.  Today  millions  arc  convinced  that 
Utopia,  not  in  the  sense  of  a perfect  and  tlieiefore  unchanging 
society,  but  of  a society  alivo  ami  moving  toward  (*vcr  new 
victories,  is  to  be  had  if  men  arc  read)  to  fight  for  ii.  Human 
knowledge,  human  activity,  science  in  the  service  of  the  people 
not  of  the  monopolists  and  war-makers,  arc  l(‘ading  to  a world 
which,  while  it  will  not  correspond  to  the  desires  of  More,  of 
Bacon,  of  Morris,  or  of  the  unknown  poets  who  dreamed  of  the 
Land  of  Uokaygne,  will  have  been  enriched  by  all  of  them  and  by 
the  many  others  who  have  made  their  contribution  to  that 
undefinable  but  ever  living  and  growing  reality  wliich  1 have 
called  the  English  Utopia. 


TAILPIECE 


COKAYGNE  FANTASY 


The  land 

Of  sun  and  sucking  pigs 
And  lust  made  light 
Is  poor  man’s  heaven. 

Ah  there  the  sweet,  white  water 
Turns  wine  on  tongue 
Wind’s  tongue  is  tied 
And  man’s 

Tunes  only  to  delight. 

Light  lie  on  glebe 
Men’s  bones,  and  stones 
Bear  the  bark’s  burden  softly 
And  a rounded-image. 

Man  grows  with  lime 
In  grace  and  gentleness. 

Takes  nature’s,  mould 
And  nature  his. 

Subject  and  object  fused 

Race  madly  up  to  unimagined  glory. 

Cut  cakes  remain. 

And  the  roast  goose  delights  with  gesture’s  garnish. 
So  the  old  poet. 

Mocked  by  philosophy  six  hundred  years. 

And  by  Jehovah’s  curse  on  bread  and  brow. 

And  all  the  while 

Plough  turned  and  racketing  loom 

And  toil  grew  tall 

And  all  man’s  fate  was  darkness. 

To  the  sound  of  the  sirens  in  the  morning 
Man  goeth  forth  to  his  labours. 

While  the  fountains  of  honey  gush  heavily. 

Forgotten  in  Cokaygne’s  green  dream. 


TAILPIECE 


In  the  idle  delight  that  had  grown 
To  seem  foolishness  in  the  earth’s  sight. 

Tin  he  awoke  to  Hammersmith  and  a fine  morning 
And  a world  washed  white. 

And  the  long  night  rolled  over 

And  Cokaygne’s  delight  not  idleness 

But  toil  new  taught,  turned  and  made  light. 


APPENDIX 


THE  LAND  OF  COKAYGNE 

[I  give  below  the  complete  text  of  'F/jc  LW  of  Cokaygfir  in  a 
modernised  verse  form.  The  only  merit  that  I can  claim  fo^  it  as 
verse  is  that  of  as  close  fidelity  to  the  original  as  is  compatible 
with  preserving  its^  structure  and  rhyme  scheme.  Rather  more 
than  half  of  the  original  text  is  to  be  found  in  T/je  Ca//jbrulge  Book 
of  Prose  and  Verse:  for  a complete  version  the  reader  has  to  go  to 
'such  places  as  Maetzner’s  AlftUifJtSthe  SpraJjpjohen  r>r  to  llickes* 
Thesaurus.  So  far  as  I know  no  version  in  modern  Imglish  has 
ever  been  printed.  I believe  that  nuny  t(‘ad(Ts  will  find  snrh  a 
version  convenient,  bccaubc,  while  the  original  text  does  not 
present  any  insurmountable  difficulties,  its  language  has  a strange  - 
ness  which  might  stand  bctwx'cn  the  reader  ajid  a proper  under- 
standing of  the  poem.] 

Out  to  sea,  far  west  of  Spain, 

Lies  the  land  men  call  Cokaygne. 

No  land  that  under  heaven  is. 

For  wealth  and  goodness  comes  near  ibis; 

Though  Paradise  is  merry  and  bright 
Cokaygne  is  a fairer  sight. 

For  what  is  there  in  Paradise 

But  grass  and  flowers  and  greeneries? 

Though  there  is  joy  and  great  delight. 

There’s  nothing  g<  )d  but  fruit  to  bite. 

There’s  neither  hah,  bower,  nor  bench. 

And  only  water  tliirst  to  quench. 

And  of  men  there  are  but  two, 

Elijah  and  linoch  also; 

Sadly  thither  would  I come 
Where  but  two  mcr  have  their  home. 

In  Cokaygne  we  drink  and  eat 
Freely  without  care  and  sweat. 

The  food  is  choice  and  clear  the  wine. 

At  fpurses  and  at  supper  time, 

1 say  again,  and  I dare  swear. 

No  land  is  like  it  anywhere. 


2I8 


THE  EKGLISH  UTOPIA 


Under  heaven  no  land  like  tliis 
Of  such  joy  and  endless  bliss. 

There  is  many  a sweet  sight. 

All  is  day,  there  is  no  night. 

There  no  quarreling  nor  strife. 

There  no  death,  but  endless  life; 

There  no  lack  of  food  or  cloth, 

Ihere  no  man  or  woman  wroth. 

There  no  serpent,  wolf  or  fox. 

Horse  or  nag  or  cow  or  ox. 

Neither  sheep  nor  swine  nor  goat. 

Nor  creeping  groom,  I’d  have  you  note. 
Neither  stallion  there  nor  stud. 

Cither  things  you’ll  find  arc  good. 

In  bed  or  garment  or  in  house. 

There’s  neither  flea  nor  fly  nor  louse. 
Neither  thunder,  sleet  nor  hail. 

No  vile  worm  nor  any  snail. 

Never  a storm,  nor  rain  nor  wind. 

There’s  no  man  or  woman  blind. 

All  is  spotting,  joy  and  glee. 

Luck}/  die  man  that  there  may  be. 

There  arc  rivers  broad  and  fine 
Of  oil,  milk,  honey  and  of  wine; 

\\  ater  serveth  there  no  thing 
But  for  sight  and  for  washing. 

Many  fruits  grow  in  diat  place 
For  all  delight  and  sweet  solace. 

There  is  a mighty  fine  Abbey, 

Thronged  with  monks  both  white  and  grey. 
Ah,  those  chambers  and  those  hallsl 
All  of  pasties  stand  the  wails. 

Of  fish  and  flesh  and  all  rich  meat. 

The  tastiest  that  men  can  eat. 

Wheaten  cakes  the  shingles  all. 

Of  church,  of  cloister,  bower  and  hall. 

The  pinnacles  are  fat  puddings. 

Good  food  for  princes  or  for  kings. 


APPENDIX.  IHE  LAND  OF  COKAYGNE  219 

Every  man  takes  what  he  will, 

As  of  right,  to  eat  his  fill. 

All  is  common  to  young  and  old. 

To  stout  and  strong,  to  meek  and  bold. 

Inhere  is  a cloister,  fair  and  light, 

Broad  and  long,  a goodly  sight. 

* The  pillars  of  that  place  arc  all 
Fashioned  out  of  clear  crystal. 

And  every  base  and  capital 
Of  jasper  green  and  red  coral. 

In  the  garth  there  stands  a tree 
Pleasant  truly  for  to  see. 

Ginger  and  cyperus  the  roots, 

And  valerian  all  the  shoots, 

Gioiccst  nutmegs  flower  thcrc'on. 

The  bark  it  is  of  c^iinamon. 

The  fruit  is  scented  gillyflower, 

Of  every  spice  is  aniple  store. 

There  tlie  roses,  red  of  hue. 

And  the  lovely  lily,  too. 

Never  fade  througli  day  and  night. 

But  endure  to  please  men’s  sight. 

In  that  Abbey  are  four  spnngs. 

Healing  and  health  their  water  brings. 

Balm  thc)  are,  and  wine  indeed. 

Running  freely  for  men’s  need. 

And  the  bank  ab(  at  those  streams 
With  gold  and  wi'h  rich  jewels  gleams. 

There  is  sapphire  and  uniune. 

Garnet  red  and  astiune. 

Emerald,  ligure  and  prassiune. 

Beryl,  onyx,  topasiune. 

Amethyst  and  chr}  stolite. 

Chalcedony  and  epctite^ 

There  arc  birds  in  every  bush. 

Throstle,  nightingale  and  thrush, 

J It  proved  irfipossiblc  to  give  all  these  stores  their  modem  names  without 
wrecking  thc  ryhmc  scheme.  Immune  is  pearl,  AsUune,  sapphire,  Prassi/tne,  chrj^sto- 
phrase,  Topasiune,  topaz  and  l\pettte,  bloodstone. 


220 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


Woodpecker  and  the  soaring  lark. 

More  there  are  than  man  may  mark. 
Singing  with  all  their  merry  might. 
Never  ceasing  day  or  night. 

Yet  this  wonder  add  to  it — 

That  geese  fly  roasted  on  the  spit. 

As  Ood’s  my  witness,  to  that  spot. 
Crying  out,  ‘Geese,  all  hot,  all  hot!’ 
livery  goose  in  garlic  drest. 

Of  all  food  the  seemliest. 

And  the  larks  that  arc  so  couth 
Fly  right  down  into  man’s  mouth. 
Smothered  in  stew,  and  thereupon 
Piles  of  powdered  cinnamon, 
livery  man  may  drink  his  fill 
And  needn’t  sweat  to  pay  the  bill. 

\\  hcti  the  monks  go  iti  to  mass. 

All  the  windows  that  were  glass. 

Turn  them  inu>  crystal  bright 
To  give  the  monks  a dearer  light; 

And  when  the  mass  has  all  been  saitl. 
And  the  mass -books  up  are  laid, 

"Fhc  crystal  pane  turns  back  to  glass, 

'riie  very  way  it  alvays  was. 

Now  the  young  monks  every  day 
After  dinner  go  to  play. 

No  hawk  not  any  bird  can  fly 
Half  so  fast  across  the  sky 
As  the  monk  in  joyous  mood 
In  his  wide  sleeves  and  his  hood. 

The  Abbot  counts  it  goodly  sport 
To  see  his  monks  in  haste  depart. 

But  presently  he  comes  along 
To  summon  them  to  evensong. 

The  monks  refrain  not  from  their  play. 
But  fast  and  far  they  flee  away. 

And  when  the  Abl^t  plain  can  sec 
How  all  his  monks  inconstant  flee, 

A wench  upon  the  road  he’ll  find. 

And  turning  up  her  white  behind. 


APPENOIX.  THE  LAND  OF  GO  KAY  ONE 


221 


•He  beats  upon  it  as  a drum 
To  call  his  monks  to  vespers  home. 
When  the  monks  behold  that  sport 
Unto  the  maiden  all  resort. 

And  going  all  the  wench  about. 

Every  one  stroketh  her  white  route. 

So  they  end  their  busy  day 
With  drinking  half  tlie  night  away. 

And  so  i:o  the  long  tables  spread 
In  sumptur>us  proccs«iion  trcatl. 

Another  Abbc}  is  near  bj. 

In  sooth,  a splendid  nunnery. 

Upon  a river  t>f  sweet  milk. 

Where  is  plenleous  store  of  silk. 

W^hen  the  summer  day  is  hot 
The  younger  nuns  take  out  a bOrt:t, 

And  forth  U[>on  the  river  ckai. 

Some  do  rc>w  and  some  do  steer. 

When  they  arc  tar  from  tJieir  Abbc\, 
They  strip  them  naked  for  their  play. 
And,  plunging  in  the  river’s  brim. 

Slyly  address  themselves  to  swim. 
W'hcn  the  young  monks  see  that  sj^ort. 
Straightway  tliithcr  they  resort. 

And  coi’  ing  to  the  nuns  anon. 

Each  monk  taketh  to  liim  one. 

And,  swiftly  bca»*ing  forth  his  pic>. 
Carries  her  to  the  Abbey  grey. 

And  teaches  her  an  orison. 

Jigging  up  and  jigging  down. 

The  monk  that  is  a stallion  good. 

And  can  manage  well  liis  hood. 

He  shall  have,  without  a doubt. 
Twelve  wives  before  the  year  is  out. 
All  of  right  and  nought  thniugh  grace. 
So  he  may  himself  solace. 

And  the  monk  tliat  sleepcth  best. 

And  gives  his  body  ample  rest. 

He,  God  knows,  may  presently 
Hope  an  Abbot  for  to  be. 


22Z 


THE  ENGLISH  UTOPIA 


Whoso  will  come  that  land  unto 
Full  great  penance  he  must  do. 

He  must  wade  for  seven  years 
In  the  dirt  a swinc-pen  bears. 

Seven  years  right  to  the  chin. 

Ere  he  may  hope  that  land  to  win. 

J JSten  Lords,  both  gr»od  and  kind. 
Never  will  you  that  country  find 
Till  through  the  ordeal  you’ve  gone 
And  tliat  penance  has  been  done. 

So  you  may  that  land  attain 
And  never  more  return  again. 

Pray  to  Ood  that  so  it  be. 

Amen,  by  holy  charity. 


INDbX 


Abund\nii,  i6,  17,  19,  j6,  104, 

210 

^ Asxeement  of  the  People^  71,  72 
Av.mt\iltutc,  56,  4*7,  36,  107,  126,  127 
All  us,  Denis  Vaif«issc  d\  S2 
Amcncin  Rc\olution,  78,^9,  T15,  140 
Anarchism,  118,  140,  169 
Aniv^t-rp,  43J,  44 
Aquinas,  Ihomas,  16 
^tt,  14.1,  156,  160,  161,  173 
\ul  ity,  )c)hn,  64,  73 

B\byios,  67,  68,  124 
Buon,  Iiantis,  ^4,  61  6,  7^,  79,  81,  84, 
94  20»,  21^ 

Bill,  ]ohn,  70,  156 
Bunhv  CioodwMi,  1^2  8 
Btplcv,  Jvt\  alter,  69 
Bcllam),  1 djiiicl,  ic,  t^S,  149  36, 
i()u,  163,  174  5,  TS4,  204 
Btnsalcm,  63  3,  80  7,  2^3,  20^ 

Btidiatrt,  Nicholas,  202 
Bi.  J trcrac,  C ^ r in<7  dc,  97 
Benneton,  Sim(»n,  84,  Tf  10  12 
Bernd,  1 D,  21, 

Bhke,  Willnm,  u6,  ii*^,  121  3,  127,  146, 
202 

Boi  ii,  196  197 
Bfdin.’biokc,  \ iscount,  102,  103 
Boston,  133,  131,  132 
Btamah,  J incst,  iSo  203 
Biobdint^n  92,  104  03 

Bilal  htl,  Pieter,  12,  Zfi 
Butler,  Samuel  10,  102,  139,  147  8 

CABhT,  Thin  i,  133,  134,  136,  141,  149, 

179 

C ambridfrt  Plitonuts,  8t,  82 
Campanula,  loinmaso,  19,  iii 
Casendish,  Marparet,  98,  99 
Cervantes,  Miguel  dt,  97,  98 
C haniDtrs,  Professor  T K , 22 
CharLs  J,  75 
Charles  11,  79,  80,.  83 
Chartism,  38,  132,  134,  137,  138 
C.hcsicrton,  Cr  K , 86,  185,  194-7 
Churchill,  John,  86,  88,  89 


Classes,  14,  3*7,  54,  5^,  64,  74,  10-,,  10 J, 
107,  113,  128,  130,  150,  131,  137,  169, 
176,  iSN'^87,  192,  203,  204,  -13 
( obbett,  William,  132,  146 
Colairnc  11-33,  68,  83,  86,  i7i,  212, 
213,  217  22 

( olendi't  S I , 120,  121 
Colei,  lohn  JO,  43 
C ollec'-e,  Ste[>hcfi,  91 
( nlonnlisi  i,  9^,  93,  1 17,  113 
Communism,  ^o,  4-.,  46,  p,  58  64,  /y, 
’oS,  iM,  T20,  132.  133,  134,  156,  163, 
i7o,  1*’3,  I'’7 
( >inte,  ill  lisle,  1S4 
( ui  lit  tine,  Mniii\,  206,  20-? 

C t ipulii,  23  , 

( Mine,  35,  36,  K J,  1 17,  211,  7 12 
Cr  mwell,  i)li\ii  73,  87,  i'^3,  186 

Dims,  J*r'Oi  1 ok  M , 96,  107 
Dtlue  Dinal,  84,  S5,  87  9,  94  6,  loi, 
t 110 

Demociat\  72,  73,  76,  77,  113,  122,  126. 
i'*7  131,  134,  140,  !'?<,  162.  163  176, 
i'7  i8t,  1S9,  191 
T)uUiet  Denis,  66  84,83,97  to8 
Diodorus  SieuliJ  , 19,  20 
D<  nnellv,  I mum  , 17"  9,  203 
Dinner,  11  W , 43 

i Asj  ^TKIl  A,  177  179 
J diuatioi,  M,  Juj,  106,  148,  173 

I nclo  ures,  36,  37,  122 
I ivcl-.,  1 riediieli,  127,  1 jR,  130,  163 
I ngluh  Revolution,  60,  61,  66  *»!,  86, 
T14, 

I auiliU,  21  3,  39,  116,  iiP,  120,  wii, 
IS5,  137,  203 

1 rasmu  , Desidtiius,  38,  43 
} rcwhoii,  144,  i47» 

I ABIVNS,  169,  183,  186,  193  7 
lascism,  I 6,  iSi,  182,  206,  207 
least  of  1 ools,  21-5 
Itrguson,  Rejbert,  89 
1 irih,  Sii  C harles,  109 
Forster,  L M , 197-200 


228 


INDEX 


Fourier,  Charles,  117,  128,  129,  141 
French  Revolution,  76-9,  114-17,  121, 
122, 127, 133 

Frost,  Thomas,  135,  136,  138 

GiiORGE,  Henry,  126 
Giles,  Peter,  43 
Glanvill,  Joseph,  81,  82 
Glubbdubrib,  91 
Godwin,  Francis,  99,  100 
Godwin,  William,  10,  91,  108,  117-19, 
122,  123,  139-41.  155 
Gott,  Samuel,  26,  69 
Greg,  Percy,  176,  177,  203 
Grey,  Lloyd  Eric,  164 
Guild  of  St.  George,  157 


Haldane,  J.  B.  S.,  206 
Hall,  Joseph,  25,  26 

Harrington,  James,  71,  73-8,  84,  85,  94. 

133 

Hartlib,  Samuel,  9,  66,  71,  73,  74,  n6 

Heine,  Heinrich,  114 

Henry  VIll,  38,  44,  50,  51 

Henry,  John,  29,  30 

Hertzka,  Theodor,  179,  188,  203 

Hilton,  James,  206 

Hoiiyhnhnms,  100,  107-9,  *7^ 

Hudson,  W.  11.,  159,  i6o 
Hulmc,  'r.  I^.,  39 

Humanism,  33,  34,  39-41,  44,  49,  53,  62, 
63,  97,  200 

Human  Nature,  165, 16G,  189-91,  200,  201 
Huxley,  Aldous,  183,  190,  197-202,  208, 
210,  211,  213 

ICARIA,  133,  134.  136.  ^9 
Iceland,  163 

Imperialism,  182,  184,  185,  196,  197 
Ipswich,  132-4 

Ireland,  78,  89,  90,  93,  102,  103-7, 

130 

Ireton,  Henry,  61,  71,  72,  182 
Islands  of  the  Sun,  19,  20 
Isle  of  the  Pines,  84,  83,  100 

James  I,  62,  66 
Jeflcrics,  Richard,  157-9 
Jerusalem,  67,  68,  124,  123 
Jones,  Hmest,  137,  213 
Jonson,  Ben,  24 
Justice,  17,  19 


Kautsky,  Karl,  48-50  • 

Kelmscott,  172 
Kingsley,  Charles,  26,  27,  91 
Knights  of  Labour,  150 
Knollys,  Hanserd,  67 

Laboor  Party,  t8o,  181 

Langland,  William,  160 

Laputa,  107 

Lawrence,  D.  II.,  163 

Leisure,  17,  25-7,  53,  54',  153 

Lenin,  V.  I.,  31,  53,  170,  204 

Levellers,  58,  72,  86,  88,  91,  108,  113 

Lilliput,  103,  104 

Lloyd,  A.  L.,  30,  yi 

Locke,  John,  125 

London,  38,  45,  48,  172 

I^mdon,  Jack,  182 

Long  Parliament,  66,  67,  75 

Los,  124,  125 

Louvain,  44,  43 

Lutheranism,  57 

Luther,  Marlin,  48 

Lytton,  Bulwer,  139 -4^.  148 

Ma<  aria,  60,  71,  73,  74 
Macaulay,  Rose,  206 
Machinery,  118,  119,  122,  141,  144-7 
153,  163,  167-9,  198,  199 
Mackail,  J.  W.,  160,  161 
Magical  Cure,  20,  27,  28 
Malory,  Sir  I’hoinas,  16 
Malthus.  nism,  123,  191,  210,  211 
Mandcville,  Sir  John,  17 
Marten,  Henry,  71,  78,  83 
Martyr,  Peter,  44 

Marx,  Karl,  46,  31,  56,  129,  138,  163,  184, 
187,  204 

Massachusetts,  78 
Mezzorarrians,  11 1 
Millenium,  67,  68,  114,  181 
Milton,  John,  68,  69 
Monmouth,  Duke  of,  86,  88 
More,  Sir  Thomas,  10,  19,  34,  37-62,  73, 
80,  94.  104,  107.  108,  111,  133,  134, 
171,  173.  203,  213 

Morris,  William,  10,  33,  52,  59,  91,  123, 
127,  155,  136-74,  176,  184,  188,  213 
Mummers’  Play,  20,  21 
Munzer,  Thomas,  58 

Nashe,  Thomas,  35,  32 
Nevile,  Henry,  78,  84,  83 


INDEX 


2Z9 


Newcastle,  125  ‘ 

New  Lanark,  130,  131 

Newton,  Is^ac,  123 

New  Zcaldnd,’.i43,  144,  147,  14^ 

Netting  HiH,  195,  196 
Nova  Solyma,  69,  70,  135 

Oceana,  60,  71,  74-7 
O’Connor, ’Fergus,  137 
Olbia,  70 
Olcana,  30,  31 

O’Neill,  Joseph,  190,  206,  207 
Ore,  124,  125 

Qrwell,  George,  207-9,  2 1 1 - 1 5 
Owen,  Kobcft,  10,  117,  128  33,  13L  i37» 
141 

Paine,  Thomas,  120,  122 

Paltock,  Robert,  84,  100,  110-13 

Pantisocracy,  120,  121 

Paris,  132,  133,  136 

Paris  Commune,  146,  163,  174 

Plato,  40-2,  38 

Pomona,  13 

Poor  Man’s  Heaven,  12,  28,  29,  31,  32 
Price,  Ur.,  114 
Prometheus,  120,  125,  135 
Property,  20,  72,  73,  76,  107,  in,  iiS, 
125-27,  133,  141,  17^’^  179 

Putney  Debates,  61,  72,  73 

Quixnwood,  137 

Rabi  lais,  Franvois,  12,  97,  98 
Kainborough,  Thomas,  61,  72,  73 
Ralahine,  130 
Read,  Herbert,  208,  209 
Reason,  63,  74,  84,  ii^i,  118,  128,  129 
Religion,  36,  57,  67-71,  81,  82,  in,  112, 
143,  148,  177 
Richter,  Eugene,  180 
Robinson,  Ralph,  44 
Rock  Candy  Mountains,  12,  28,  29,  31,  32 
Rota  Club,  78 
Rousseau,  J.  J.,  123 
Royal  Society,  66,  81 
Ruskin,  John,  91,  146,  i57» 

Russian  Revolution,  1903,  174,  193 

Sadler,  John,  70’ 

Saint-Simon,  H.  C.  de,  128,  129,  184 
Salomon’s  House,  63,  66 


Samuel,  Lord,  203-3 
Samurai,  186,  188-90,  192,  193,  200 
Sarsiield,  Patrick,  89,  90 
Science,  65,  66,  81,  106,  107,  123,  136, 
137,  183,  184.  192,  198,  204,  206  ; 

Sedgemoor,  86,  87,  89 
Sclcnltes,  186,  189,  190 
Serfdom,  14,  13,  18,  33 
Severambd  83.  84 
Sexby,  F.dward,  7^ 

Sex  relations,  83,  85,  T09,  142,  200,  208, 
212,  221 

Shakesi^eare,  William,  24,  61 
Shaw,  G.  B.,  139,  204,  206,  209 
Shelley,  1\  B.,  117,  119,  120,  123,  134*  133 
Sieves,  Abbe,  79 
Smith,  1 1.  R.  77 

Soc*ahsm,  20,  42,  44,  46,  47,  58,  64,  77, 
loK,  111,  120,  132-4,  136,  163,  170, 173, 
176,  177,  211  13 
Southc5%  Robert,  120,  121 
Spence,  Thomas,  n8,  123-7,  135 
Spice,  16,  17 
Stalin,  Joseph,  190,  213 
otaplcdon,  ( >laf,  206 
State,  42,  49,  31,  32,  104,  106,  108,  117, 
n8,  126,  154,  170,  183,  211,  212 
St.  Branden’s  Isle,  13 
Stoicism,  19,  20 
Stubbes,  Philip,  22 

Swift,  Jonathan,  38,  43,  84,  89-109,  17 1 

Thamts,  RivbR,  168,  172 
TiJdy,  K J.  E.,  20 
'Poland,  John,  73,  78 
Topsy-turveydom,  20-  3 
Times,  90-2,  103,  140 
Trafalgar  Scjuarc,  169 

Ulmia,  205 
Urizen,  12.4,  123 

IJ.S.A.,  28-33,  1 1 3,  120,  134,  i;9,  140, 
I4V-5L  177*  178,  211 
U.S.S.R.,  168,  194,  203,  211,  213 


Venice,  76,  77 
Vespucci,  Amerigo,  43 
Voltaire,  F.  M.  Arouet  de,  97,  125 
Vril,  141,  142 

War,  90,  92,  1 12,  1 18,  126,  209 
Walpole,  Robert,  103 


INDEX 


2}0 

Webb,  S and  B.,  185, 194 
WeUofLife,  17 
Wells,  H.  G.,  129,  160,  182-95,  197,  198, 
201,  203,  204 
Wbeatlcy,  Dennis,  206 
Whigs,  86,  87,  90,  91 
Wilkins,  Bishop,  99 

WinstanJcy,  Gefraid,  10,  77, 107,  1 18, 155 
Wildman,  John,  78 
Wilbrandt,  Conrad,  174,  173 
WiUcy,  Basil,  40,  63 


Wilham  III,  86,  87,  89  . 

Witchcult,  23,  24 
Wood,  Anthony,  99 

Work,  14.  15,  45,  53-5,  ^4h  155, 

163,  167,  168 


Yahoos,  109,  no 
Ydgtun,  148 
Yeats,  W.  B , 28,  147 
Yoxford,  132,  137